And Now My Heart Stumbles on Things I Don't Know
by JamesLuver
Summary: [Showverse; Modern AU] Now, listen closely. This is the most exciting time of the year. We all know it is. We all love it. But we also all know that we can't enjoy this season properly without our favourite traditions, those things that make us happiest and fill us with joy. So let's count them, shall we? Make sure we've covered them all. Twelve. That's the magic number.


**A/N:** My entry for the Winter Jorleesi Event, A Song of Frosted Bear Kisses and Dragon Roasted Chestnuts over on AO3.

This has been the best December ever, and I have loved every moment of our event. Now I'm going to spend some time catching up with the fabulous entries I've yet to read, and re-visiting the ones I already have-check out the others if you haven't already (I'm sure you have!).

So I know this is super long and that can be kinda intimidating...but please don't feel like you have to comment, etc, because I truly don't mind. If you can get through it, congrats. If you can't, no worries! There are plenty more epic fics coming in the rest of December which you will enjoy! Perhaps I could have split this...but then I wouldn't have been true to myself, and long oneshots are pretty much the norm in my main fandom.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Game of Thrones_.

* * *

_And Now My Heart Stumbles on Things I Don't Know_

"_Okay, are we all sitting comfortably? Got our hot chocolates? Nice and warm by the fire? Are we ready? Now, listen closely. This is the most exciting time of the year. We all know it is. We all love it. But we also all know that we can't enjoy this season properly without our favourite traditions, those things that make us happiest and fill us with joy. So let's count them, shall we? Make sure we've covered them all. Twelve. That's the magic number. They sing about twelve days of Christmas, and there are twelve things we must stick to traditionally. The first thing we should cover is decorations. We have plenty of those, don't we…?"_

* * *

For a man who has spent most of his life living in harsher climes, Jorah detests the winter. Winter means insufferable goodwill and unbearable cheer.

Winter means Christmas.

It's been a long time since he last enjoyed Christmas. The last one, seven years before, did not hold any pleasant memories for mere days later, before the turn of the New Year, his wife, Lynesse, had left him for another man, taking him for every penny she could get in the process. The finest jewellery and most overt romantic gestures couldn't keep her happy. She'd always wanted more and his pockets, unlike his heart, were not bottomless.

Unfortunately, he's not allowed to wallow in silence, for the rest of the office delights in such festivities. For Tyrion Lannister, it's another excuse to get rip-roaring drunk almost every night. For Daario Naharis, it's an opportunity to show off his superficially romantic side to bag any woman he wants.

For Daenerys Targaryen, it's the chance to be young and free in a way she was never allowed to be throughout her childhood.

She teases him constantly about his aversion to the holidays, but it's hers alone that does not grate on his nerves. He has no wish to divulge the finer details of his disastrous marriage to her, for he is a private man, but he knows that she does not intend any malice, not like some of the others who make snide remarks do. And so he bears her jibes with good grace, taking out the rest of his frustration rather more zealously than necessary on the others.

"Gods," Tyrion Lannister often declares, "if only I was three feet taller, comely to look at, with nice, round tits! You wouldn't speak to me that way then!"

It's often all Jorah can do not to punch the little git in the face.

He's sitting in his office nursing his first coffee of the day when his peace is interrupted by a crash. He jumps to his feet at once, almost sending the mug flying, his senses instantly on high alert. The holiday season always brings an increase in crimes, and Daenerys is making quite a name for herself. It stands to reason that she would be targeted by simple-minded fools.

But when he flies out into the lobby, it's not to find some clumsy thief. Instead he finds Daenerys Targaryen herself on her hands and knees, scrabbling about after the spilled contents of a burst box.

"Daenerys?" he says, relaxing his stance at once. "What in seven hells are you doing?"

Daenerys glances up, pushing her hair from her face with an exasperated sigh. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I don't know," Jorah replies. "Making a mess for me to clean up?"

"Tyrion is right: you're _not _funny," she grumbles.

"And yet you're smiling."

Daenerys schools the treacherous tug of her lips at once, then gestures to the mess she's made. "Well, aren't you going to be a gentleman and help me?"

"I can't say I've been much of a gentleman in my time."

"A knight in shining armour, then," she says, gathering the things into her arms. He bends down to help her, trying to ignore the way that his heart skips a beat in his chest. This casual flirting between the two of them is nothing new. It's one of the most common facets in their relationship; Daenerys by nature is friendly and flirty, and he's a fool if he reads anything into it just because it suits him.

The admonishment is always invariably delivered in Daenerys' harshest tone, and comes with the memory of her violet eyes sparking with repulsion, her disdain sharp as the coldest steel instead of the burning fire he usually associates with her. He's made that mistake where she's concerned once. He won't make it again.

At last, the explosion of mess has been cleared. Jorah rises back to his full height, trying to juggle the boxes so that they don't topple to the floor once more.

"Where do you want these going?" he asks.

"Take them through to my office. Thanks."

He nods and sets off, leaning back slightly to keep the teetering boxes against his chest. It's a relief to reach her office, and he dumps his load down unceremoniously, wincing as the top boxes crashes to the smooth mahogany.

"Hey, be careful," says Daenerys, kicking the door shut behind her with her heel. "There's stuff in there that's breakable."

"Like what?" says Jorah, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

Daenerys rolls her eyes at him. "Christmas decorations, of course."

"Christmas decorations?" Jorah snorts. "Daenerys, Halloween has only just passed."

"Precisely. Halloween is gone. So now we need to get ready for Christmas."

"Yes, in December."

"Only a scrooge would leave it as late as December."

"I think you'll find most people do."

But Jorah, despite his teasing, feels nothing but warmth in his heart as he looks at her. How can he not? Daenerys is one hell of a woman. Beautiful, fiery, shrewd. A killer sense of humour. She's not had an easy life; he's seen a lot of that first-hand, the only person who works with her who has been with her right from the beginning, when she was living in exile in Essos because of her father's gang-related activities. Drugs, violence, trafficking…Aerys Targaryen was involved in it all. Jorah, down on his own luck, in a self-imposed exile because of the way he had ruined his family name and broken his gruff old father's heart, had imagined that any Targaryen children could only be as rotten as their father, the apple never falling far from the tree.

He was only half-wrong. Viserys Targaryen was a vile specimen, unworthy of being called a man, a cowardly little worm who used violence and threats in much the same way his father had, and who had shown himself to be a weak-chinned loser when faced with adversity.

But Daenerys was something else entirely. When he'd first met her she'd been a shy slip of a thing, barely speaking unless she was forced to, and married to boot. Her husband, Drogo, had been a force of nature. Standing at an intimidating six foot four, with bulging biceps and almost as wide as two men, he was fierce and infamous for his fighting skills—the khal of bar brawls, they'd whispered about him around town—not the kind of man anyone would mess with. His own credentials had been less than savoury, but he had mostly been protective of Daenerys, and she had seemed to have appreciated that, especially when it came to being shielded from her brother. Down on his luck as he had been himself at the time, Jorah had stooped to the same lows, running deals for Drogo's gang whenever they were required. In truth, it was an ingenious arrangement. He had always had the ability to blend into his surroundings, and no one was going to suspect the amenable, accommodating older man as someone who needed to be flagged up on anyone's radar.

He'd grown closer to the younger Targaryen the longer he'd spent in her company, and despite himself he'd found that _he _was growing more protective of her too. It was too easy to bristle when Viserys flew into one of his rages—waking the dragon, he used to call it—harder still to sit by and listen to the vile comments that he would throw at his sister. _Slut. Whore. Opening her legs for any of Drogo's gang. Little slave, sold by him. His commodity, his property._

Sometimes Daenerys had snapped in turn, seeming to find some of her own fire from inside, but mostly she had taken the blows with nary a sound, expression void of emotion.

Drogo, on the one occasion that Viserys had been foolish enough to make a snide comment in his hearing range, had expressed his emotion in the best language he spoke—with a mean right hook right into Viserys' weasel face. The look of terrified shock had certainly been one to savour, and it had brought Jorah satisfaction for weeks to come, to see him scurrying around like the little ant he was.

The one and only time he had stood toe to toe with Viserys, there had been no other witnesses. Just the two of them, squaring up like old adversaries, with a sackful of Daenerys scant, most precious belongings between them. As the weeks had gone by, Jorah had found it harder and harder to hide his contempt for the other man, and Viserys was a fool, but not a _total _one. He'd known that his dislike was there—and the feeling was mutual. In turn he had tried to strike with his own venom, piercing a vein and injecting it right into his bloodstream.

_You don't think I see you looking at my little sister? Don't think I know what you want?_

And it had hit close to home. Too close. Closer than he wanted to inspect. As pathetic as Viserys was, he was cunning and perceptive.

_I don't care. You can go to town and dine on whatever parts of her you'd like. She's of no use to me anymore. You can fuck her behind the mighty Khal Drogo's back as often as you like, but let me go._

And as he'd made to move past him, Jorah had stood firm, barged into him with his shoulder. Viserys had stumbled backwards, almost tripping over the items he'd intended to loot.

He'd kept his temper. Told him that he could go wherever the hell he liked, but Daenerys' possessions would be staying right where they were. Viserys' intimidation card did not work, and he had none left to play. He'd sloped away into the night, more lizard than dragon.

Two days later he was dead. Killed in some kind of bar fight was the explanation that made its way back to Daenerys, but Jorah doubted that was all there was to the story. Viserys had an even uglier temper than usual when he was drunk, and it wouldn't take much to get him riled. Drunk, he took even rasher decisions, bit off more than he could chew.

Would even take on someone like Drogo. But it was best not to mention that.

Daenerys had taken the news with the same blank expression. She shed no tears.

"He was no dragon," were the only words she had ever spoken on the matter.

But although it had left her as the only Targaryen alive in the world, it had been a catharsis of a kind. Like letting out a blood clot. Not pretty. Painful. But necessary for life to move on.

Out of her brother's shadow, she had been allowed to grow. Blossomed into a dragon in her own right. Not ugly and vengeful, snapping at any opportunity. But growing in increments. Spreading her wings and soaring like the majestic beasts, embracing her whole form. There were no limits to what she could do.

Really, the rest had been inevitable. He should have seen it coming. It played like a bad rom-com, and the joke was on him. Dragons were queens that ruled above all, and they would never be concerned with the interests of an old, grizzled bear.

"Jorah? Hello? Anyone in there?"

Daenerys waves a hand in front of his face now, and he comes back to himself with a jolt. He's been staring into space for far too long, lost in his own tortured thoughts. Another thing he can't seem to shake. He tries to force a smile, but it's small and tight.

"Sorry," he offers. "I was miles away."

She huffs. "Sometimes I think you're as bad as Tyrion is when it comes to listening to me."

Which is a bit of an insult. Tyrion never comes up for air. He loves the sound of his own voice too much to listen to anyone else.

"I am listening," he says stubbornly. "I'm just trying to get my head round it, that's all. Christmas in November is just ridiculous."

She sticks her tongue out at him. "Well, I don't care what you think. I'm the boss. I get to make the executive decisions."

"Don't you always?" he jokes. "Going against whatever sound advice we can give you?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, since I'm starting the season of goodwill early." She turns back to her boxes and begins to tear into the contents of the first one. "But since you insist on being such an arse, you can have the job of helping me to put all of these up."

Jorah groans. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly."

"I'm supposed to be working."

"I'm your boss. I make the rules."

"I'll remind you of that when some nutcase walks right in the front door and I'm not there to vet them."

"Barristan and Torgo are more than capable of handling any situation that might arise."

Which is true, Jorah supposes. But no one is more dedicated to their work than he is. His sole purpose in life is to make sure she and her business is safe. They live in a cutthroat world. Daenerys is more than capable of handling herself, but he doesn't want her to have to. It's his job to look out for her, as he's found himself irresistibly drawn to doing right from the beginning. Her brother is gone, and so is her husband, and a couple of other fleeting lovers, but not him. No matter what she throws at his weary heart, he will endure.

That's what love does. Endure.

It's a word that will never pass between them again, but that's the way it goes. Silent and jaded, it stands there through it all. Rain. Shine. Storm. Built stone by stone into the majestic structure it is today. An architectural masterpiece from the past. Chipped and scarred in places, but never one to yield.

Hearts aren't made like this anymore. Most are as fragile as finely spun glass. Would shatter the first time they fell without being caught.

Sometimes he wishes his own wasn't so. That he could let go and move on.

_Here we stand_. It's been the Mormont motto for centuries. Words they take too literally. It's a curse that they don't know when to give up, even with a lost cause.

Daenerys is his lost cause. Perhaps a punishment from the gods for his mistakes of the past. She is perfect, unobtainable; it doesn't stop him wanting her. The hurt has dulled in the last couple of years, aching like an old wound in cold weather, a niggling reminder that things will never really be the same again. But this is the price he has to pay for his sins, he supposes. A prison he doesn't want to escape from. Sisyphus destined to perform the same task over and over again for all eternity. He is hers, forever. No matter the cost.

There's no use arguing with her. She always wins out in the end.

"Fine," he relents. "What do you want me to do?"

She grins at him, thrusting one of the boxes into his unsuspecting arms. "Start unpacking that. I'll let you know where I want things."

That's the grace and charm of Daenerys. She's been through so much in her young life. She's grown, hardened, become a commanding leader in her own right. And yet, beneath those layers of cool regality, there's still the innocent girl he once knew, wide-eyed and enchanted by the world.

They work in silence for a while, Jorah carrying out her every command. Soon, her office is a veritable grotto. There's a Christmas tree standing in the corner, which she tells him he has to decorate with her. He finds the act strangely intimate, helping her adorn her tree exactly how she wants it, repositioning baubles, watching her scrunch her brow to decide if she likes the placement of something or not. He's much taller than her, and she gives him the honour of attaching the star to the top.

Her desk is covered in Christmas ornaments, from a tinsel snowman to a carved robin. Quite how she's going to do any work for the next two months is a mystery to Jorah, for she isn't going to have much room to put any kind of paperwork. She's strung lights up around her computer monitor and even the windows have been plastered with stick-on snowflakes.

And then, when she's done with that, she drags him out into the rest of the office space and tells him that they have to do in here too. He heaves a sigh at that, aware of the rest of Daenerys' employees swivelling around to look at him.

"Can't you get someone else to help?" he pleads. "Missandei?"

"Oh, I see you're filled with the usual seasonal cheer," comes Tyrion's voice, where he's reclining at his desk. "The seasonal cheer of a bout of flu, that is. Can't you even pull yourself out of your misery for the Christmas season?"

"It's not Christmas until December," Jorah shoots back. "And I have been helping, all morning. But unlike some people, I _do _have work to do."

Tyrion only gives a crooked little smirk. "Implying I'm a lazy bastard…that's about the only wit a Mormont could ever have. If you were prepared to listen to me, I could turn you into a proper comedian in only a few days."

"Jokes about tits and wine aren't what I would exactly call humorous."

"That's because you haven't seen any tits in a tragically long time. You might actually crack a smile if you found a woman to fuck you. Of course, that might be harder to achieve than you think…"

Laughter ripples from Tyrion's associates, Bronn and Podrick, who are both as bad as he is. Jorah sets his jaw, flexing his fingers. He'd very much like to go over there and punch the little Lannister right in the face. He'd done it one before, not long after they'd initially met, and it had given him a great rush of satisfaction. Never mind a woman, _that _had brought him the greatest pleasure he'd had in a long time. He tells Tyrion as much.

"Touché," Tyrion drawls. "Unfortunately for you, Mormont, there's not much you can do to ruin my good looks. I daresay a broken nose would only add to the appeal." He tips him a wink. "Besides, the ladies don't care about looks when you're as good in bed as I am." He makes a crude gesture with his tongue, which sets Bronn off again.

"All right, that's enough," says Daenerys, but there's no hiding the amusement in her tone. "Tyrion, leave him alone. And if you carry on being a dick you'll find yourself working the shifts no one else wants."

"Try my dick and I think you'd change your mind," he quips breezily. "Five star recommendations from the ladies, I promise."

"The ladies who you pay," Jorah snips. "They're not going to say any different."

Tyrion only laughs, never one to take offence at any jibes thrown at him. Daenerys shakes her head.

"Okay, you can stop butting heads like rams now," she says. "Maybe we _will _start somewhere else. Missandei, you wouldn't mind helping out in here, would you?"

The young woman rises from her desk at once. "Of course not."

Daenerys has a cheeky little glint in her eyes. "I'll send Torgo in to help you."

Missandei blushes, but there's no hiding her pleased smile. It's one of those badly-kept secrets, an inevitable office romance. In truth, it couldn't happen to better people. Jorah likes both Missandei and Torgo very much. They're both quiet and reserved, honest and hardworking. They balance Daenerys' sometimes impulsive behaviour very nicely, and Jorah knows that Torgo would do anything to keep her safe, much like he himself would. It's borne a great mutual respect between the two of them.

"That's settled, then. Let's go, Jorah."

Daenerys turns and marches away, enviably cool and collected. Jorah runs a hand through his hair, but he's never been able to resist a direct order from her. Ignoring Tyrion's immature catcalls—_"That's it, Mormont, go and serve!"_—he follows Daenerys out of the door.

She's waiting for him out in the corridor, and flips her braid over her shoulder. "I'm sorry about Tyrion's behaviour."

He shrugs. "There's nothing to apologise for. He's always a little shit when I'm around."

"I know he's not your favourite person. I admire you for tolerating him."

"I don't have much of a choice, do I? He's bloody good at his job, and he's a valuable asset to your team. I want you to succeed, and Tyrion will help you with that."

"He grates on me sometimes too," she confesses as they begin walking down the corridor. "All of those ribald jokes get old fast. But he's not going to change. And I don't employ him for his humour. I employ him for his mind. That's enough for me. Besides, if I want him taken down a peg or two, I'll just throw him in Olenna's direction. She's the only person in the whole world who can run rings around him."

Jorah snorts. "And long may she reign."

They drift into companiable silence as they move into the spacious lobby area. Irri, one of the many young people who followed them back from Essos to Westeros, jumps to her feet at once.

"Khaleesi, I wasn't expecting to see you," she says.

Daenerys waves it away with a kind smile. "Don't trouble yourself, Irri."

"Jorah the Andal." Irri dips in his direction, and Jorah raises his hand in acknowledgement. He's always liked the young Dothraki girl. She's got a good head on her shoulders and she's loyal. Daenerys needs as many people like that as possible surrounding her.

Not that she has any enemies within her ranks here. Each and every person under this roof is here because they believe in Daenerys and the vision she has with Targaryen Enterprises. She has suffered all her life, and she wants to do something about that for the youth of today, to give them the chances that she never got. She wants to leave the world better than she found it. There's a noble beauty about that. Cynics will say that there isn't a single person who can change the world, but they don't know Daenerys first-hand; they don't know of her gentle heart and will of steel. There is no doubt in his mind that she will succeed in what she wants to achieve. She's simply that kind of person. Strength and determination. Grit and desire. Fire and blood.

"We can start decorating in here," she decides as she surveys the area. "It'll cheer the place up a bit."

Jorah shudders at the idea of yet more time spent putting up bloody decorations. "And you're sure you can't get someone else to help? Irri would probably enjoy it."

"I don't want Irri. I want you."

The words stretch between them, heavy in the silence. He swallows hard, moving his gaze to the tiled flooring instead. "Fine." He daren't say any more. Any more would be revealing too much of his heart. He's done that before, to his own detriment. He does not intend to do it again. Suffering the heartbreak once was bad enough. He won't put his heart on the line again. What's done is done. What is dead may never die, but he has no intention of bringing the reminder to the forefront of her mind. They've managed to move past it. They don't need to go backwards.

Daenerys has never been one to look back.

She huffs now, folding her arms across her chest. "You're being unusually stubborn, even for you. Is helping that much of a problem?"

"Of course not," he says indignantly. "I'm just not much of a Christmas person, that's all. It's not a crime."

"It should be."

He knows that she's only trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn't work. He sets his jaw, turning away. He has no intention of letting her see him weak. "Not everyone has good memories of it."

There's a beat of quiet. Then Daenerys reaches out, grazes her fingers along his cuff.

"Is that why you don't enjoy it?" she asks quietly. "Are the memories not good for you?"

He's said far more than he should have done. It's not a conversation he wants to have with her. She more than anyone understands a fractured family life, but these are memories he's never breathed mention of to another living soul. Memories of fights with Lynesse because he couldn't afford the things she wanted, stealing money from his father's estate to lavish her with finery, the countless he's spent alone since then, bitter and jaded with the world. There has been little for him to celebrate in the season of goodwill for many, many years.

"They could be better," is all he's willing to say.

"I'm sorry if you think I'm pushing you."

Jorah stops and raises an eyebrow at that; Daenerys has never been one very good at apologising. She'll admit when she's made mistakes, but sometimes those two words stick in her throat. He understands why. No doubt she'd spent her entire early life apologising to Viserys for things he'd deemed she'd done wrong. Now that she's in control of her own destiny, it's difficult to make herself look vulnerable in front of others.

"You're not," he tells her. "I'm just a miserable bastard, remember? Tyrion's never wrong."

That succeeds in making her laugh. She shakes her head. "Fine, you win. I won't torture you anymore. Never let it be said that I can't be nice sometimes."

He dips his head, his throat thickening. She's more than nice. He's thought it for such a long time. She's glorious.

"Thank you," he manages. "If you need me, you know where to find me."

Her gaze softens. "I know." He's probably too predictable that way. He'll stay in the security room surveying the area for any suspicious activity or dangerous-looking lurkers until she's left the building for the night. There have been assassination attempts on her life before, especially when they were in Essos, especially with her family so prolific, but even though things have been quiet for a while now, he doesn't trust that there won't be more, not when she's shot to the top of the ladder. He won't let anything happen to her on his watch.

"I'll see you later, then," he says, and walks away. He can feel her eyes burning into him all the way.

* * *

Later, when he's back in the three-roomed flat he calls a home, there's a knock on the door. He frowns, muting the television. This is an unusual occurrence, and not one he's entirely comfortable with. He never gets visitors. He doesn't have any friends, not these days. He burned those bridges when he fled Westeros. When he's not shadowing Daenerys, he's here alone. He sees little point in going out when he can stay here. He's not well-liked in Westeros. It's better not to tempt fate. His betrayal of his family made ripples in the close circles his family socialised in. He wouldn't be welcomed back into those, and especially not with his association with Daenerys, whose father did a lot of damage to another one of those families, the Starks. No doubt there are people out there who would pay good money to have his head. Making national news for being murdered isn't the way he'd choose to go.

Cautiously, he makes his way to the door, glancing around to see if he has anything nearby which might serve as a weapon should it come to that. The lamp is really the only thing. Oh well. He takes a deep breath.

And almost has a heart attack to see who's standing on the other side of the threshold.

"Daenerys!? What in seven hells are you doing here?"

She shakes out her silver hair, holding out a bag. "I come bearing gifts."

"It's not my birthday."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, I know that. You're a sweet summer child, born in the heat of July. Aren't you going to invite me in?"

The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably. Daenerys has never been in his space before. He isn't sure how he feels about her seeing it. It's not as if she'll judge, never having had a stable home of her own and living in conditions that have been less than savoury, but there's something inherently intimate about her being in his space and seeing what his life is compacted into. He has a TV, sparse furnishings, a bed and shower. There are no personal touches. Nothing to make it seem as if he has any kind of life. There's something very tragic about that, and he isn't sure that he wants Daenerys to see past his armour to the soft underbelly of his loneliness. He has to be content with her friendship; he does not want her pity. Having her pity would break him.

But she's still standing there, crooking an eyebrow in his direction, and he has never been able to deny her anything. If she ordered him to walk into fire, he would do it without hesitation; he would take a bullet, a blade, a blow for her. He would die to keep her safe. It sounds melodramatic. Some might say that it's only because it's part of his job. But it's more than that. It's always been more than that.

He loves her. And he'd do anything to keep her safe. Even if that means he has to die.

Sighing, he steps aside, allowing Daenerys to duck inside.

"You shouldn't have come here alone," he admonishes.

"I didn't," she says. "Barristan is waiting outside. I just wanted to speak to you alone." Her eyes wander around the room, taking in the peeling wallpaper and the worn settee and the rickety coffee table. What must she think?

"So, what is it you wanted to speak to me about?" he asks. He'd rather have her attention on him than on his morose surroundings. Her violet eyes flicker back to him, and she holds up the bag she's carrying.

"This," she says, moving over to the table. She spills the items inside onto the surface. Jorah suppresses a groan of dismay, but only just.

She's brought Christmas decorations.

"Daenerys—" he starts, but she holds a hand up to silence him.

"Hear me out," she says. "I know you were saying earlier that you weren't all that fond of Christmas because you didn't have that many good memories. Well, I want to change that if I can. No one should have unhappy memories at Christmas. I thought this might be a nice way of giving you some better ones."

"I'm not sure I follow."

She tuts. "Well, I want to help you decorate your flat."

"It's November," he points out again, but he can't stop the corner of his mouth from curling upwards. Yes, it's only November. No, he isn't keen on the idea of falling over ridiculous Christmas decorations for the next two months.

But there's something profoundly poignant about it the fact that Daenerys has gone out of her way to get him things, to try to give him some better memories. She has no obligation to do so. She has a hundred other people constantly vying for her attention and affection. Some she's ignored, some she's given herself to. None of his business, but he's burned with lonely jealousy nevertheless. Hasn't stopped him serving her. Hasn't stopped it from hurting.

But she's here now, instead of with anyone else, doing something to make him feel better. She might not be in love with him, but he can't deny that she does love him. Platonic love is something to be treasured too.

"All right," he says with mock-resignation. "What have you got?"

They sift through the items together. Daenerys has certainly left no stone unturned. There's a small Christmas tree, barely waist-height. A couple of boxes of decorations. There are two she seems most proud of.

"Look what I found," she says, holding them up for him to see. One is in the shape of a bear, polar rather than brown like the bears found on Bear Island, wearing a Christmas hat and holding a plaque inscribed with his name. In her other hand she holds a dragon, also wearing a Christmas hat, bearing her name. Quite what dragons have to do with Christmas Jorah couldn't say, but it's a sentiment he appreciates. The dragon and the bear. Their namesakes together. The fact that she thought of the two of them and bought them means a lot to him.

"I like them," he says. It's all he dare do. He doesn't want to revisit the past and stir up old ghosts.

"Shall I hang them on the tree?"

He gestures for her to do so, pretending to be altering the angle of a stuffed robin in the window so he doesn't have to watch her dainty hands handling the ornaments with such care.

They spend the rest of the time working in silence. Alone, Daenerys hadn't been able to bring too many decorations, and in truth he doesn't want to have them all over the flat. The few she has brought are enough to brighten the place.

When they're done, Daenerys pushes the hair out of her eyes and gathers her things together. "Well, I should get going. Barristan will be wondering what they hell we're doing."

His cheeks burn at the implication. "Yes, it's late. And you shouldn't be out on the streets after dark. It can be a dangerous place."

She waves a dismissive hand. "I'll be fine. I hope these will help a little, that's all."

"They will," he responds truthfully. Reminders of her can be painful, but they are the most beautiful pain he could experience. He never wants to be without it. He walks with her to the door. "Be safe, Khaleesi."

Her eyes soften at the word. Khaleesi. It's his nickname for her. Some of her Dothraki friends still call her that, like Irri, but the majority of the people here are Westerosi and did not know her before. It's special. He is the only Westerosi who will ever call her that.

"Goodnight, Jorah," she says, stepping back over the threshold, back over the great divide. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bright and early," he confirms.

She pauses for a moment, then reaches across the space between them. Her fingers close around his wrist, cool and slim. The touch sends a bolt of heat right through his blood, as if he's been blessed by fire.

"I hope you can take some good memories from these decorations going forward," she says.

"There will be. Thank you."

With one last smile she pulls away from him, fingertips leaving fire in their wake as they slip from his skin. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, taking a moment to compose himself. He's trembling. It's been a very, very long time since she last touched him. Years ago, before things strained between them. He's been so long without the touch that he's forgotten what it was like.

It's a visceral jolt of remembrance now. How he would ache for that touch. Crave it like nothing else. Didn't know what to do with himself when it was lost to him.

Had resigned himself to living out the rest of his days without ever experiencing it again.

Perhaps that would even have been for the better. Less torture.

It doesn't matter. He wants her regardless.

Stupidly. Desperately. Pointlessly.

He scrubs his hand down his face, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Best not to think on it. It will do his sanity no good.

His eyes lands on the tree, twinkling prettily in the corner.

His heart skips a beat. The lump arises in his throat anew, making it difficult to swallow.

It means nothing. But it means everything.

She's placed the dragon and the bear right next to each other. Side by side. Until the end.

* * *

"_The light switch on in town is one of the most important events of the calendar year. There's nothing quite like seeing them flare into life, is there? To walk in awe beneath them, the flickering lights eclipsing the stars overhead. And King's Landing always likes to put on a show, doesn't it? Every kind of light available, they're all there for everyone to see. You all have different favourites, but that doesn't matter because there's something for everyone to fall in love with. A fantasy world we can all live in. And, more than anything else, it truly does signal the start of the Christmas season. You remember what it's like to count down, don't you? That excitement in the pit of your bellies as you wait for those lights to spark to life. Let's count down again now, recreate the moment. Three, two, one…!"_

* * *

He's sitting at home with a tumbler of whiskey and a terrible film when his phone buzzes on the coffee table. Grateful for any kind of distraction, he picks it up and unlocks it.

There's a text from Daenerys.

His eyebrows shoot up at once. She is not the kind of person to frivolously text him out of the blue. He does not usually hear from her unless she is in work. Friends though they are, she rarely has time to spend with him these days, because her dedication to her work takes up most of her time. He wouldn't have it any other way. She is exceptional at what she does, and the world is lucky to have a person like her in it. She is special, the kind of woman who comes along only once every few centuries. He is honoured to just be in her presence, never mind being able to call her a friend.

Still, he can't deny that it's nice to have her text him like this. He opens the message.

She's sent him a picture of a poster.

_Lighting up Blackwater Bay! _is the caption, accompanied by some Christmas lights.

_Wanna go? _Daenerys has written underneath.

_Go to what?_

The eye roll emoji accompanies her next message. _The moon. What do you think? It's the King's Landing light switch on next week! Fancy it?_

He doesn't fancy it, not really, but he _does _fancy her a whole lot, and nothing is more precious to him than spending time in her company. Perhaps Missandei is busy and can't make it with her. Either way, he doesn't care what her reason is for asking him right now. She's asked him, and that's good enough. He composes his reply at once.

_I'm sure I can rearrange my diary._

_Was it very full?_

_You know me, a man in high demand. But I'll fit you in somehow._

_My knight in shining armour. X_

The kiss gives him reason to pause in its rarity. She uses it with Missandei all the time, but he racks his brain to recall if he's ever seen it tagged on to the end of one of her texts to him before. He doesn't think he has. No doubt she's never done it in order not to give him the wrong impression, but the sight warms his heart nevertheless. Still, he has no comeback to that, so decides it's best to ignore it completely. He doesn't want to give her the wrong impression in turn, that he's still wallowing in his feelings for her.

Which he isn't. Wallowing, at least.

_When is it?_

_The date's on there!_

_Indulge me. I'm an old man now. My eyesight's failing me._

_You're not that old._

Ten minutes pass, and he wonders if she's waiting for him to reply. He can't reply. Doesn't know how to. This is even worse than the last comment. At least then he'd been able to change the subject. How does he do that here?

Eventually, his message tone pings again. Daenerys' name flashes up. With some trepidation, he swipes the screen to unlock it, finding her message.

_It's Friday._

His chest loosens. She's saved him the trouble after all.

_Great_, he texts back. _I'll see you down there, about six? _That'll give him time to get home and shower. It's not a date, will never be a date, but that doesn't mean he wants to turn up in his work clothes smelling of sweat.

_Should we grab something to eat afterwards? Not sure I fancy cooking when I get home._

At that, his temperature rises several degrees. Seven hells. Eating out with her? That's a whole other ballgame. Grabbing a coffee every so often is fine. Coffee shops are always bustling with people, frequented by everyone from groups of friends to lone businessmen.

Dinner implies a small table, low lighting, intimacy…

And yet he can't pass the opportunity up. Any chance to spend time with her is a bonus, regardless of what havoc it'll wreak on his heart.

_Sure, _he replies, _I'll let you decide where. You know more places than I do. _After all, she's always out around town with someone, whether it's for business or pleasure, and his life has narrowed to the four walls of his apartment.

_Sounds good_, is her swift response. _See you at work tomorrow._

Jorah throws his phone back onto the coffee table, wincing a little as it makes a harder bang than he'd intended. He tries to turn his concentration back on the film, but he wasn't enjoying it in the first place, so paying attention now is impossible. His mind drifts instead to Daenerys, and to the prospect of spending a whole evening with her on Friday night.

* * *

Friday evening comes much quicker than he'd anticipated, and before he knows it he's making his way down to Flea Bottom to meet Daenerys. They'll walk the rest of the way to Blackwater Bay together.

She's standing on the street corner when he arrives, bouncing on the balls of her feet like an excitable child. It makes him smile. That innocent, excitable side of her, so rarely seen by anyone, is something he treasures above all else. She's still only young, barely in her late-twenties, and this is exactly the sort of thing she should be doing. Going out and having a good time. Exploring. Enjoying her life. She's so young to have such a weight on her shoulders. He knows she bears it gladly, because she cares about the world and the people in it, but it shouldn't have to come at her own expense. If he could carry that burden for her, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

But he can give her this. A night off from all of that. A night where she gets to enjoy the frivolity of youth over something as simple as the light switch on. And even though he hates Christmas, he'll gladly bear all of that awful cheeriness for her.

She catches sight of him and raises her hand in greeting. He waves back.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," he says. "Got caught up with something." He daren't tell her that he decided to change outfits five minutes before he was scheduled to leave.

"That's okay," she says, and he's grateful she doesn't press. "Are you ready to go?"

They make their way through the narrow winding streets, dodging children who dart about underfoot and exasperated adults who chase after them. King's Landing has come alive with the promise of more festivities.

At last they make their way down to Blackwater Bay. The place is already crowded, and Daenerys clings to the back of his coat as Jorah muscles his way through the crowd, trying to get a better spot for her. He receives some glowering looks but he matches them, and they soon turn away from him. Tyrion often tells him that he as a face that would scare away the Night King himself. He'll take that as a compliment if it means that Daenerys gets a better view of the lights. He lifts his arm and she ducks under it so she can stand in front of him. It's mindless in its synchrony, an action that neither of them had to think about, as if they had read each other's minds. Daenerys casts a little shy grin in his direction before turning her attention to the stage.

One day he suspects _she _will be opening events like this, the most beloved person in King's Landing and indeed the rest of Westeros. Targaryen or no, she will prove she is different to those who came before.

For now the job lies with Olenna Tyrell, actress extraordinaire and all-round brilliant woman. Daenerys knows her too. The old Queen of Thorns has a soft spot for her. Perhaps she sees some of her younger self in Daenerys' spitfire determination. She's certainly a good ally to have onside.

She gives a short speech to the growing congress, the usual words of encouragement and goodwill that are expected at events like these, but tempered with her trademark quick tongue. Jorah tunes it out, not really very interested, finding his gaze drifting to Daenerys instead, to the wonder in her upturned eyes, to the way her face glows with an ethereal light in the darkness. She is otherworldly. If he believed in magic and dragons and the rest of it, he'd say she looked an angel.

"Now, everyone, have a jolly good Christmas!" is Olenna's final message, more of a command than a wish, and cheers rise up as the place around them is suddenly illuminated with fresh light. Daenerys whoops and claps with the rest of them, her smile the biggest he's ever seen it. He resists the urge to brush his thumb against the apple of her cheek. The lights dance in her violet eyes.

At last she rouses herself, turning in the small space between them to crane her neck upwards. "Can we take a walk along them?"

"Of course," he says at once. He's not going to deny her anything. This is her evening. He is but her humble servant.

Beaming, she grabs at his wrist and tugs at him. He follows her through the dispersing crowd.

The lights are nice to look at. Dancing snowmen and penguins sliding down hills and angels flying overhead. Father Christmas flying in his sleigh with Rudolph at the helm. All around them children shout with glee, pointing up at the spectacles, looks of sheer wonder on their faces. That touches a tender spot inside him. Makes him ache too. He's never going to have children. He'll never be a father, will never emulate this again with a little sandy-haired boy or a silver-haired girl. Fatherhood might change his feelings about the festive period. He'll never know for certain, but the little ache in his chest hints that it _does_ have the capacity to change.

Daenerys' fingers squeezing his wrist brings him back to the present moment, and he shakes his head to clear those thoughts like one might shake away the cobwebs. Daenerys hasn't noticed that his mind had slipped away from her, too enraptured with the sights around them, Christmas come to life.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" she breathes.

"Yeah," he says, "they're beautiful." But he's not looking at the lights.

They walk slowly down the main street, Daeerys marvelling at each illumination they come across and Jorah pretending to be taking it all in. She gives a sigh of disappointment when they reach the end, but quickly brightens at his reminder that they have sustenance to find.

They dine out in an intimate little pub, where the lights are low and the hum of voices is very much the tone of a lover's. Jorah manages to retain his composure long enough to get through his meal, but even then it's a relief to get back into the cool air and back onto familiar territory. It must have been the lighting, but there had been something rather disconcerting about the way that Daenerys had been looking at him, almost as if she was analysing his every move. It hadn't done much to put him at ease.

He walks her home at the end of the night, and she thanks him by pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin tingles and burns like she's branded him, her lips sliding across his skin as she pulls away slowly.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," she murmurs, so close to him that he feels her warm breath on his mouth.

Swallowing is difficult, but he manages to speak around the lump in his throat. "It was my pleasure." It was. A whole evening spent uninterrupted with Daenerys is something to treasure like the world's rarest petrified dragon egg.

"I'm glad I was with you tonight," she tells him. "No one else understands me like you do."

Missandei would have been bemused. Daario would have teased her, not understanding what something as simple as Christmas meant to her. He's glad that she trusts him with this above anyone else, lets him see this side to her that no one else is privileged to see, not even the man he suspects is still sharing her bed.

He doesn't say any of that. Instead, impulsively, he grasps her hands in both of his and presses a kiss to the backs of them, her skin freezing to the touch. There's surprise in her eyes when he glances up at her, but no disgust.

It still wouldn't do him good to linger.

"Goodnight, Khaleesi," is all he says. "Have a good weekend, and sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams, Jorah," she echoes softly. He turns his back on her and walks away, not allowing himself to turn to look at her one last time.

That night, he dreams of Daenerys' soft laughter and a kiss beneath a thousand Christmas lights.

* * *

"_What else makes this time of the year magical? It's the Christmas songs, of course. What's your favourite? All I Want For Christmas is You? Good choice. I'll let you in on a little secret: it's mine too. What do you mean, I didn't always like it? Fine, I suppose that's true. But I had my reasons for that. Besides, I can change my mind, can't I? Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to sing…What was that? Oh, well, in that case…I don't want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need…"_

* * *

The decorations went up early, but thankfully Daenerys was merciful enough not to start the Christmas music at the same time. Jorah can only be grateful for that. There's only so many times he can listen to _Mistletoe and Wine _before he goes mad.

Unfortunately, it can't be put off forever. The first of December creeps around, and the Christmas songs burst into life. _Little Drummer Boy_. _Last Christmas_. _Frosty the Snowman_. Over and over and over. He takes to bringing along his own music to block out the sounds.

Daenerys scowls at him when she finds out.

"That's not entering into the Christmas spirit," she tells him.

"I don't think I'm doing too bad," he retorts. "I helped you decorate the office, didn't I?"

She concedes that with a small smile. "But it's not the same without music. It adds to the magic of the season!"

"If you say so."

"I do. And I'm always right."

Which is true. She usually is. But not in this case.

Especially when he has to listen to Tyrion bellowing out the lyrics at the top of his lungs. For someone so small, he certainly has a big mouth. And he can't sing. Which certainly doesn't help.

"I know where you're coming from," Daario commiserates with him, all gleeful malice. "If I were an old man like you all I'd want to do would be to get my carpet slippers and my dressing gown on and bed down in front of the fire with a nice book. Thankfully I've got a very long time before I get there."

He really is an arrogant little shit. Jorah doesn't care for him. He has no manners. He's as slippery as an eel.

Not that anyone else really thinks that. Daario is well-liked. He's good-looking, and has most of the women in the office giggling after him like maids at a tourney. He's one of the lads, cracking borderline offensive jokes with Tyrion and Bronn. He's good at his job, which has earned his respect with Barristan.

And Daenerys likes him. That irks him the most.

She's liked him a lot in the past. He knows details that he'd rather have avoided. Daario had described their sexual exploitations in graphic detail to him. Jorah suspects that he'd done it deliberately, knowing that it would get under his skin, knowing that he has feelings for Daenerys too. Most people skirt around them, whether it's out of pity or sympathy, but Daario is not one of those people. He's always relished rubbing his nose in it, letting him know that he's second best in all aspects. Just the friend. Never exciting or attractive enough to be the lover.

_Gods, you should see her_, he'd told him, all cocky triumph as he ran a hand through his tousled hair. _She's a wild thing in bed. Up for absolutely anything. The Dragon Queen is the right nickname for her. Truly, I don't think many people could ride the dragon. _You _certainly couldn't. You'd have a heart attack. I'm young and I could barely keep up with her. Wanted to go at it all night long. No complaints here, though. Pretty girl. Knows what she wants…_

He'd almost cut his palms with his fingernails in his efforts to keep his composure. There was nothing he'd wanted more than to give the young lothario a bloody nose, but showing jealousy wouldn't have won him any points. It's none of his business who Daenerys sleeps with. Good luck to her. She can do whatever she likes. But he'd rather not know the details. It's hard enough just knowing. He doesn't want the blow-by-blow accounts rammed down his throat.

_I make her happy_, Daario told him consolingly once, clapping him on the shoulders as if it was supposed to bring him some kind of comfort. _She deserves the chance to be young. Too much work crushes the spirit._

And Jorah hates him for it, but Daario isn't wrong. He does make her happy. She laughs freely around him, a constant fission of sexual tension marking every encounter. Jorah's seen them together several times, sitting so close they're almost touching, flirting up a storm.

He always tries to make a quick getaway. He might have been brought to his knees by his shame, but he still has enough pride not to want to be made a fool of. He's the constant butt of Tyrion's jokes. He does not need to hear any more of them. _The poor old grizzly bear, smitten by the maiden fair! Alas, cries she, you are too much a bear for me!_

Songs about love, especially love during the magical season, don't help his dour moods. It's a load of shit, he wants to yell. There's no such thing as happily ever after or magical moments of joy in the snow. Love is as cruel as it is kind, and it can be no less forgiving than the winter snows that keep the north in a constant state of frozen wasteland.

It's late in the evening now. Most people have already gone home for the day. He'd raised a hand and waved at Missandei as she left the building with Torgo, the two of them hand in hand. Barristan's shift had ended only a few minutes ago, and he'd murmured something about going for a drink with an old acquaintance. Christ, if even old Barristan Selmy has got himself a Christmas love affair, Jorah thinks he'll have to chuck himself from the Tower of Joy, the infamous landmark skirting the edges of the Red Mountains of Dorne. He really wouldn't hear the end of it from Tyrion then.

Speaking of Tyrion, the little Lannister waddles past his desk, shooting him a wicked grin.

"Bronn and I are going for a boys' night," he announces. "Littlefinger's. Do you want to join us?"

Jorah wrinkles his nose. "I'd sooner poke needles in my eyes."

"No wonder you can't get anyone to fuck you. An attitude like that will send the ladies running in the opposite direction. And there are plenty of ladies at Littlefinger's."

Jorah knows that all too well. Littlefinger's is the seediest place in town, a high-end strip club that somehow manages to look more like some medieval whorehouse than anything else. _We cater to all tastes! _the sign outside proclaims proudly, but it sounds a touch menacing to Jorah. He'd rather not know what _all tastes _means.

"I'm working late tonight," he says instead. "Daenerys wants me to wait behind until she's finished up."

"Business before pleasure is such a dull rule to live by," Tyrion drawls. "And you're not getting any pleasure at all to make it worthwhile. Well, you know where to find us if you change your mind. Come on, Bronn."

Bronn tips him a cheeky wink. "If you do come, I recommend Ros. She's very bendy."

And with that, they're gone. Jorah sighs, leaning back in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. Christ, he could do with a drink. Something strong. Fermented mare's milk sounds heaven right about now. It's rancid stuff, knocked back like hard liquor by the Dothraki, but Jorah would quite gladly down a gallon of it if it meant he could get the image of Bronn with some kind of contortionist out of his mind. Shaking his head in disgust, he turns back to his paperwork. Barristan had asked him to finish it up before he went home, and it'll give him something to do for the next hour or so.

He's only been working for about fifteen minutes when he hears heels clicking across the floor, and then a light knock on his door. He glances up to find Daenerys in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her hip. It's unsuspectingly sexy, and Jorah swallows hard, quickly averting his gaze.

"Hard at it," she notes, and he feels his cheeks beginning to heat up. Gods, that's the last thing he needs, for Daenerys to be spouting oblivious innuendoes.

"Got to get it done," he grunts, hoping his rather terse tone will put her off. It doesn't.

"Well, I've got some files to take home with me," she says. "I was hoping you'd help me carry them to the car when you're finished."

"Sure," he says. "When?"

"Finish what you're doing first," she says. "Come and find me afterwards. I'll only be in my office."

He nods. She lingers for a moment more before disappearing. Jorah sighs. He doubts it's ever going to get any easier. He's a slave to her every whim.

He waits for a little while before standing. Better that Daenerys think he was busy like he's supposed to be. Better that she doesn't know he hasn't been able to concentrate since her visit. All he's managed to do is doodle her name in the margin of his paper. He's scrunched that up and thrown it in the bin now. Just the ravings of a lovelorn soul.

Heaving a sigh, he locks the door behind him and heads for the elevator. Idly, he wonders what files she's taking home. Work, work, work; Daenerys is dedicated to it. It's a trait he admires in her. She'll not rest until she's explored all avenues. Her current plan, to open a food kitchen on Christmas Day for the neediest in the community, is one that she's taking great pride in organising. She'll be there on Christmas morning, of that he has no doubt, serving food and happiness alongside any other volunteers.

The elevator dings and he steps out.

He's met by the belting sound of music.

"For fuck's sake," he mutters under his breath. That's the last thing he wants. The song that grates on him above all others: _All I Want For Christmas is You_. The lyrics hit a little too close to heart, which just makes him feel all the more pathetic.

It's one of Daenerys' favourites. He's heard her belting it out at the top of her lungs when she didn't think anyone else was around. He'd stopped and watched, utterly enamoured with the sight of the young woman who exuded such poise and professionalism letting her guard down and acting like the young woman she'd been robbed of being. He feels privileged to have been given that glimpse of her, though a part of him feels grimy, too, as if he was spying on something he should never have watched.

Still, he can't help but smile. He ought to have known she'd be listening to this. He could swear that it's on the playlist about ten times over, though Daenerys demurely denies all knowledge.

The smile disappears as if it was never there, like snow in Essos, as he rounds the corner.

It's not a sight he'd expected. But he ought to have known.

Standing together in the middle of the deserted office are Daenerys and Daario.

The music blares, but he can hear Daario's dulcet tones above Mariah Carey anyway, bellowing the words for Daenerys to hear:

"All I want for Christmas is you!"

And Daenerys is laughing. Side-splitting giggles, doubled over, arms crossed over her stomach. Daario looks very pleased with himself, and launches himself into even bigger dramatics because he knows he's got her attention.

Jorah's stomach roils. He feels sick. He doesn't want to see it. Hearing about it was bad enough. He doesn't want to see the romance blossoming again right before his very eyes, while he stands here like a spectre, unable to touch the real world.

"Dance with me, Your Grace," Daario sings; that's _his _nickname for her, because he says she ought to be a queen, that she _is _a queen, queen of the world, conquering it with dragonfire. Half the time Jorah doesn't know if he's using it as a means to tease and belittle her, but it doesn't seem to bother her.

It's certainly not bothering her now. Daenerys raises an eyebrow.

"I don't dance with peasant boys," she says, adopting a queenly façade.

"Then it's a good job I'm the son of a whore," he retorts without missing a beat, and she laughs again.

Acquiesces.

Daario offers his hand and Daenerys takes it. He pulls her in close, holding her possessively at the waist. Begins to lead her in some lively jig that makes her snort with laughter again as she stumbles after his steps, not very queenly at all.

Jorah's heart contracts tight in his chest, as if it's being squeezed with an iron fist. It's very difficult to breathe.

He doesn't want to be here. _Can't _be here. Can't make a loud noise to alert them of his approach and then pretend that he doesn't have a clue that he's interrupted something crackling and visceral.

He doesn't want to see the glances sneaked at each other, the grins, the unspoken words between them that promise a _later_.

It's a scene that's broken his heart once. He does not want to endure it again.

Isn't sure he _can _endure it again.

Daenerys doesn't need his help to carry files. She's got all the help she needs, and no doubt Daario will be rewarded generously for his assistance.

His shift is at an end now, and Daario will ensure she gets home safely. They don't need him.

Jorah turns on his heel and walks away, pausing at the office to collect his jacket, returning alone to a cold and empty flat.

* * *

"_What's the best accessory for keeping warm during the winter season? That's right, the woollen scarf! You should never go anywhere without it. It might not seem like it, but it's honestly one of the warmest garments you can have about your person. What's that? Well, that's true. There never does seem to be one around. But I think there's an ulterior motive for that…"_

* * *

Daenerys sweeps into the building, looking harassed.

A week has passed since Jorah glimpsed the intimate exchange between her and Daario in the office, and he will admit that things have been a little bit strained between them. Not on Daenerys' part—he's sensed her looking at him sometimes, a faintly puzzled frown on her face, as if she's trying to work out why there's been a shift between them—but Jorah is in no mood to give her the opportunity to poke at him. It's not something he can easily make up an excuse for, anyway. How does he possibly explain to her that the reason for his aloofness is because he's burning up with jealousy again? She'll only roll her eyes and label him a brute. Which she's right about. But she isn't seeing the human cost to his heart. He doubts anyone, man or woman, would be okay with watching the object of their affections giving all of their romantic attention to someone else. He has no right to her affections, he knows that well enough, but he is not a robot, immune to the human cost with a mechanical heart pumping pointless fluid. It lives; it _breaks_.

So he's tried to avoid her as best he can, not giving her an outlet to stop and have a conversation with him, making sure he's busy, busy, busy. If there's one thing Daenerys respects it's a strong work ethic, and she will never question that. He's even taken some of the workload from Torgo, citing that the younger man ought to spend as much time with the woman he loves as possible. Torgo had looked surprised, but he's not a fool, and certainly wouldn't question it. Missandei is too precious to him, Jorah knows that, for him to want to throw away any extra time they might have together.

But Daenerys is here now, and to ignore her would only be rude and probably incite her bad temper. So Jorah breaks off his conversation with Irri and offers reluctantly, "Bad morning, I take it?"

Daenerys scowls at him. "Just a bit."

"What happened, Khaleesi?" Irri asks.

Here Daenerys flushes, twisting the handle on her bag. "Just a bit of a mad rush, that's all."

"You overslept, didn't you?" Irri says knowledgeably. Daenerys flushes an even deeper shade of crimson, made all the more pronounced by her pale silver-blonde hair.

"Don't breathe a word to anyone," she grumbles. "Tyrion will have a field day. He'll crack jokes about sleeping beauties for the rest of the week."

"Not a word will pass my lips," Irri says brightly. "You can trust me."

"I do." Daeneruys turns to him. "And that goes for you as well. No sharing with Barristan or Torgo. It'll be round like wildfire. I'm supposed to be setting an example."

"Late night, was it?" Jorah asks casually, pretending to be coolly disinterested. He's far from it. His mind is already conjuring up unwanted images of Daenerys' slim, pale legs wrapped around Daario's more tanned torso.

"I was up all night looking over the deal with the Starks," is her answer. "Sansa Stark can be a slippery little bitch. I don't want her to sneak anything untoward in the small print. I'd kick myself if I let something slip under my nose."

Ah. So maybe not a night of passion with Daario after all. Jorah feels a little brighter at that. If there's one thing he knows about Daenerys, it's that she won't let anything distract her if she's got the bit between her teeth. Not even a handsome young man like Daario. All must wait their turn. Daenerys' work is her one true love.

"I don't think she'd do that," he says. "She's Jon's cousin. And Jon is your family. He wouldn't be very pleased to know that she'd tried to cheat you."

"Sansa wasn't all that fond of Jon when they were young," Daenerys shrugs. "So I doubt she's given much consideration for his feelings. Unless there's something she can gain from them. She learnt from Littlefinger. She's good at the deceit game."

Jorah isn't sure how much of a compliment it is to have learnt from a man who dedicates most of his time to his seedy strip clubs, where the workers are almost certainly mistreated. Petyr Baelish is not well-liked in Westeros, and with good reason. He's the kind of man who would offer a lonely traveller a bed and then slit their throat in the middle of the night for their purseful of coins—and it would never be traced back to him.

"Jon wouldn't allow it," he says instead. "You're his family."

"And so are the Starks," she points out. "And he's always been more of a Stark than a Targaryen. He doesn't feel that family connection, he's said that himself."

"Because he was never given the chance to _be _a Targaryen."

But she shakes her head. "He was born amid ice and snow, like I was born in fire and blood. Jon is no more Targaryen than I am Stark. He'd stand by Sansa if it came to it."

It's probably true, but it's a fact that sits uneasy with Daenerys. Jorah knows it. She's spent so long as the last Targaryen. To find someone else who shared her blood, only to find that in turn he would denounce that family connection for the sake of belonging properly to another…well, it had cut her deep. Daenerys is proud of the family name. It's had a bloody history, but it still has powerful connections. She wants to be the one to return it to its former glory. He can't blame her for that. He's ruined his own family name. His young cousin Lyanna has the heavy mantel of restoring people's faith. He only wishes he could do it himself.

"Well, there's no need to run yourself into the ground," he says. "Especially at this time of the year. You know colds tear through the ranks like grey plague right now. The last thing you want is to be laid up at home."

"Yes, thank you, Jorah," she snaps. "I'm well aware of everyone's desire to keep me fit and healthy."

Irri blinks, then mutters something about needing to get some paperwork filed, hurrying away from her desk with a wad of papers that Jorah's pretty sure are just her doodlings of her beau's name, Rakharo. He wishes he could do the same.

But Daenerys heaves a sigh, scrubbing a hand down her face. "Gods, I'm sorry for snapping."

"It's all right," he says at once.

"No, it's not. None of this is your fault. I'm just tired and grouchy, and I'm taking it out on you."

"I don't mind."

"Well, you should. Sometimes I realise that I don't appreciate you enough. You only want what's best for me, as I only want what's best for you."

"It's the nature of friendship," he intones. "Sometimes we hurt each other without meaning to."

She frowns, but if there was something she wanted to say, she chooses not to voice it. She changes tact instead. "I've not seen much of you over the last few days. Where have you been?"

"I've been busy," he lies. Busy moping. Still seeing Daenerys' grinning face and Daario's arrogant look of achievement whenever he closes his eyes. He's needed time to lick his fresh wounds. Better for all of them that they haven't been in contact with each other.

Daenerys quirks her eyebrow as if she doesn't quite believe him, but thankfully she doesn't prod him further. "Right. Well, I'd better be getting on. Too much to do and nowhere near enough hours in the day. See you later."

"Bye," he murmurs, and watches as she walks away from him. Even windswept as she is, she still cuts a beautiful figure. It only makes his heart ache anew that he'll never be able to tell her that for himself. He doesn't want to cause any more discomfort. It was enough to last him a lifetime the first time. No, that job will be for another man.

Daario, probably.

That thought does nothing to improve his mood, and with a morose shake of his head, Jorah turns in the opposite direction. If only he could turn back the clocks. Back to before those few days before, before he'd seen her with Daario again, further back still, before he was a little bit drunk and stupid enough to tell her that he loved her. Things had been much simpler then.

_But then when have you ever done things the simple way? _whispers a voice in his head. It's the voice of his father. And that only succeeds in making him feel worse.

* * *

Jorah sighs and stretches; he hears his back crack. Gods, he's getting too old for this. Which tells him all he needs, really. Any other man would find something less taxing now, a security job elsewhere. Or they'd retire and take up fishing on the Trident or something equally relaxing.

Barristan's summed it up best: _I want to work for someone who I believe in, right until I'm too old to do it anymore. Until they have to pull me out in a wheelchair. Daenerys could well be that person. Do you believe in her?_

He'd turned to glance over his shoulder at where Daenerys was conversing with Missandei, the morning sun catching her profile and making her hair glow like the bone-white moon. Like that, she'd looked like something from another world. A goddess, a heroine from one of the songs. There had been only one answer.

_With all my heart._

With every fibre of his being, with every single breath he takes. He will never leave her side, not until he's dragged from it.

He moves over to the coat stand and shrugs his thick jacket over his shoulders. He winds his scarf around his neck and pulls on his gloves. King's Landing is nowhere near as cold as the north, where the lakes freeze over for months and the snowfalls can reach knee height, but he's been a long time away from his homeland. His body has adjusted to warmer climes now. He's a northman only in name now. He wouldn't change that. He misses home, of course. He doubts that that will ever change. But King's Landing is comfortable enough, and Daenerys is here.

He locks the door behind him and pockets his keys. It's only a short walk across the city to his flat. In weather like this he wishes he was lazy enough to have driven. Vanity takes precedence. He might not be an attractive man, but at least he can keep himself fit for the job.

He steels himself for the sharp slap of the wind against his cheeks. His breath mists in the air. He plunges his hands deeper into his pockets and turns the corner.

He almost runs headlong into Daenerys. He jerks back in surprise.

"Khaleesi!" he gasps. "What in seven hells are you doing out here!?"

Her cheeks are bright pink, her tresses a wild halo around her.

"Jorah!" she says. "I didn't hear you coming."

"Not very good," he says. "Anyone could have snuck up on you."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not that high in demand. Besides, that's what I pay you for, isn't it? To be alert enough to keep me out of trouble?"

Her choice of words is like a dagger right through the heart, but he knows she means it flippantly enough, isn't aware that every little thing right now is a bruise to his delicate skin. He forces a tight smile.

"It is," he agrees. "What are you doing? Waiting for someone?" Daario?

"Missandei is meeting me here," she says. "We're supposed to be going back to her place for a little while. Torgo is out with some of his friends. We thought it'd be a good time to do some catching up. We've got some last minute details to look through. We thought we might as well make a night of it, do it over a bottle of wine."

"Just don't get drunk," he jokes. "All sorts of frightening things start to make sense then. You don't want to wake up tomorrow to realise you've agreed to do something very stupid indeed."

"Speaking from experience, are you?" she jibes, tongue in cheek.

"I've made my fair share of drunken mistakes, yes." He instantly regrets his choice of words; his last drunken mistake was the one that fractured their relationship for a time. He hastens to add, before she can come to the same conclusion, "I woke up in a strange place with strange people." Also another one of his less finer moments; he'd been heartbroken over losing Lynesse, and he'd picked up a strange woman from a bar. In the morning he hadn't even been able to remember her name, and had crept from her bed like a thief. He'd sworn off women after that.

Until he'd met Daenerys. And then all hell had broken loose.

She shakes her head now. "I don't think I want to know."

"Probably wise," he agrees. Not that she'd ever be jealous of some faceless woman from years ago. She doesn't look at him like that. She'd simply be disapproving of his treatment of said woman. She generally holds men in great disdain. He can't say he really blames her. Between Viserys and Drogo, she'd had a pretty shitty start in life.

The wind blows again, and Daenerys shivers, bringing him back to himself. With a jolt he realises that she's standing there in just her dress and jacket.

"Where's your coat?" he asks her, stepping closer, as if that will somehow shelter her from the wind.

"I ran out the house without it this morning, didn't I?" she complains. "That'll teach me."

"Seven hells…you'll catch your death out here. Why don't you wait for Missandei inside?"

"She'll be here in a minute. There's no point now."

"Take my jacket, then." He makes to shrug it off, but she holds up a hand, horrified.

"Don't be ridiculous!" she says. "I'm not taking that away from you."

"I don't mind. It's my duty to protect you. It might as well mean from the cold too."

But she shakes her head, stubborn as a dragon. "No. I'll be fine. It's not too bad, really."

The way her body is trembling seems to tell a different story. "I'm a northman. I'm used to these conditions. Take it."

"I said no, Jorah."

"Fine." He backs off. He should take the hint. He's outstaying his welcome. As he frequently does. She wouldn't want anything of his. No doubt she'll wrap herself in something of Daario's later. The image of her draped in his clothes is enough to make his throat hot with bile. He swallows hard. But even then he isn't selfish enough to leave her entirely. "Look, at least take my scarf."

She raises an eyebrow. "Your scarf?"

"It's not a coat, but I've always found that they work wonders. It's better than nothing." He moves his hands to his neck, pulling the scarf free from its knot. He holds it out to her. After a moment's hesitation, she reaches out and takes it.

"Thank you," she says. "That's very kind of you."

"What am I here for?" he says. "You're welcome."

She winds the scarf around her neck then, after a beat, turns her back on him.

"Khaleesi?"

"My hair's all tucked in," she says. "Will you get it out for me?"

It feels as though his heart freezes in his chest for a split-second.

Gods.

She's giving him permission to touch her. He's not touched her intimately for a long time.

Since he told her he loved her.

The air between them feels heavy. Weighted with too many unnameable emotions.

"Well?" she prompts.

He swallows thickly. "Are you sure?"

"I'm not asking you to undress me, Jorah." There's an edge to her voice now. Perhaps a dig at his affections. It raises his hackles slightly.

"Right," he says tersely. He pulls off his gloves with his teeth and puts his hands on her shoulders. At once, all of the ire leeches out of him. It's stupid to be angry with her. Being angry isn't going to change anything. And he keeps reminding himself that having her as a friend is better than not having her at all. She forgave him for his stupid actions and still allowed him to be close to her. That is his problem to conquer.

It's the most intimately he's ever touched her. He's brushed his fingers over the back of her hand countless times…but nothing quite compares to this.

The soft skin of her neck beneath his calloused fingertips. The hard knot at the base of her skull, the baby-fine hairs that rise in the cold. The satin feel of her skin, so delicately constructed over her bones. Of their own accord, his fingers brush against her skin, and he isn't sure if he imagines her soft intake of breath or not. Her skin is cool to the touch, and he gently gathers her thick hair in one fist, easing it out from beneath the thick wool of his scarf, the fingers on his spare hand sweeping for any errant strands he might have missed. Electricity crackles from his fingertips and down his wrist, warming his blood. He has the urge to bend down, to nuzzle the cold tip of his nose against her and press a warm kiss to the exposed skin. Would it warm her?

Daenerys turns; he's not expecting it to happen. He's already close to her. He can almost feel the heat emanating from her. She's tipped her head back to look at him and he'd already inclined his to better see what he was doing.

They're too close. Noses almost brushing. Her violet eyes searching. Her warm breath against his chin. Just a couple of centimetres, that's all he'd have to move to have his mouth against hers. Just the mere thought of it is enough to have him pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. There's never been a time on earth where he's wanted to kiss her more.

Is she considering it too? Does she feel this strange charge between them, a kind of electricity he dare not name?

Her eyes flicker down to his lips, then back up to his eyes. His heart jolts. Is she going to—?

No.

She pulls away. And he's back to reality once more. Back to berating himself for even allowing himself to get carried away for a single second. She does not have feelings for him. He needs to banish those thoughts for good.

"Thank you," she says, her voice no more than a breathy wisp.

"No problem," he says, pretending to be fixated on pulling his gloves back on. He can't look at her. Afraid of what he'll see. Afraid of what he won't. "I'll leave you to it. Have a good evening, Daenerys."

"You too."

He dips his head and ducks round her, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets. He feels her eyes on him all the way down the street.

She returns the scarf to him the next day, a little bashful smile playing about the corners of her mouth, making her look years younger. When he's sure he's alone, he raises the material to his nose and breathes in deeply. It smells of _her_; of the shampoo she uses, of jasmine, of her light perfume.

When it's time to go home, he tucks the garment carefully around his neck and breathes in the scent of her all the way home.

* * *

"_We can't talk about Christmas without bringing up ice skating. You love that, don't you? You soar across it like little dragons. Naturals, you are. Not like me. What's that? You're mocking me? It's hardly my fault. Some people just aren't made for the ice. What do you mean, you know that? Hey, it's not my fault that ice can be treacherous…"_

* * *

"I've got an errand to run in town," Daenerys tells him, flopping down in her seat behind her desk.

Jorah's come up for a mid-morning cup of tea at her behest. He was expecting a reason worse than this one. Perhaps some irregularity in the workplace, or a mysterious figure lurking around. He raises his eyebrow at her. "And you're telling me this why?"

"Because I want you to do a weather dance." She rolls her eyes at him. "Because I want you to come with me, why else?"

His heart leaps. They haven't spent any time alone together since the light switch-on. It'll be nice to get away from the office for a little while and simply be Daenerys and Jorah. They could even grab a coffee if she hasn't got to rush back.

"Okay," he agrees. "When do you want to go?"

"Finish your drink first and then grab your coat. I'll meet you down by the entrance."

Fifteen minutes later they're heading out into the cold. Daenerys shivers a little, drawing her coat tighter around her. He resists the urge to step closer to her, letting her leech some of his body heat.

"So, what is it you need to do?" he asks her as they stride along.

She glances up at him. "I haven't sent Jon a card yet. I suppose I ought to." Her relationship with her nephew is a little fractured. They like each other well enough, but Jon has never made it a secret that he yearns to belong to the Starks. Daenerys and Sansa Stark do not see eye to eye, and Jorah knows that it hurts Daenerys that Jon always stands by her side in every decision. It simply drives the point home that he'll never be a Targaryen. That he doesn't _want _to be a Targaryen. Starks belong in the north, and that is where he stays.

"I take it he's sent you one?"

She stiffens, then sighs, glancing a little meekly in his direction. "Yes."

"Bloody noble git," he says, knowing that she needs cheering up, and succeeds in making her laugh. Goal achieved.

It's a little slippery underfoot, and they tread their way carefully the rest of the way in silence. When they arrive at the post office, Jorah waits outside while Daenerys goes in to sort out the postage. His breath comes out in smoky puffs, and he shifts from foot to foot to generate a little bit of warmth. King's Landing is never as cold as this usually. He wonders if there's something coming to get them—perhaps the White Walkers written about in centuries past, bringing death and cold with them wherever they went.

He snorts. Yeah, right.

Thankfully, Daenerys isn't too long. She emerges from the post office, pulling her gloves back on.

"Shall we sneak away for a coffee?" she says.

He won't tell her that she read his mind, choosing to tease her instead. "Skiving from our jobs, Miss Targaryen?"

"I'm the boss, I can do what I like." She pokes her tongue out at him.

"I'm not the boss. I can't," he points out.

"Well, there have to be some benefits to being friends with me. The fact that I can say you were working hard for the whole day has to be one of them."

"That's the kind of cunning thing Tyrion would say."

"Well, he is my right hand. I suppose I have to listen to him sometimes."

They duck down a dark side street. They know every nook and cranny of this city now, and Hot Pie's is the only place to go for the best food and drink.

"What do you want?" Daenerys asks as they cross the threshold.

"I'll get them."

"No, you won't. I never do anything for you. You're always doing nice things for me."

"Well, that is part of my job description," he jokes. "You'd have grounds to get rid of me if I wasn't looking out for you."

"I'd never get rid of you." She pauses a moment, then tilts her head back to look him directly in the eye. "You're very important to me, Jorah Mormont."

He can't maintain that stare. It feels too…much. Too familiar. What the hell is he supposed to say to that?

So he doesn't say anything.

"Go and get a table," he says gruffly. "I'll get the things in."

Perhaps it's his imagination, but Daenerys deflates and nods. He watches her weave her way through the cramped tables before joining the queue, his own mind buzzing.

She does that sometimes. Gives him mixed signals. Keeps him at arm's length one minute, then pulls him tight to her side in the next. Rolls her eyes at him, a clear signal that he's irritating her, and then speaks words like those.

Then again, she wouldn't be his Daenerys without it, and he wouldn't change a thing about her for the world. Not even to have his affections returned, not if it meant having a different version of her.

That's what real love is. Loving someone else so completely that it overrides any selfish desires of his own.

He places his order, then carries the tray to the table where Daenerys is sitting. She's found one by the window and she's staring out of it now, idly twirling a strand of her long silver hair around her index finger.

"You look lost in thought there," he says. She jumps, clearly guilty as charged. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing," she babbles, snatching at one of the mugs.

Which means that it definitely wasn't nothing, but he isn't going to push her. There's nothing worse than that, he knows it from his own experiences.

"Here," he says, pushing a plate with a peach tart on it towards her. "Get that down you."

Her eyes widen. "Jorah, you shouldn't have."

"Why not? I know you like them."

"That's not the point."

"Of course it is."

"You're too good to me."

He isn't good enough. She deserves the whole world like the queen she is. He is a lowly knight serving her as best he can.

"Just eat it and enjoy it, Daenerys, for the sake of the gods."

"Well, share it with me at least."

She always has to have the last word. Nevertheless he can't help grinning, leaving the table to grab a second fork.

It's tart and delicious, and it takes him back years, to a time when they were in Essos and sharing the simple pleasures of a single peach together. It had been a little overly ripe and so very sweet, but it had clearly been the best thing Daenerys had ever tasted. He'll never forget the sheer bliss on her face as she'd chewed it, a little bit of juice spilling down over her chin, her eyes closed as she savoured the taste of it. It had been all he could do not to lean forward and taste the juice himself.

Things had been so whimsical those days; there had been a strange energy between them, the two of them alone in the world before she'd found the kindred spirits who shared her vision. Some days she'd been as surly as a child. Others she had looked at him with a strange gleam in her eyes, one that he couldn't have deciphered for anything in the world. Sometimes, he thinks, alone in the dead of night, if he'd kissed her then, things might have turned out differently.

Alas, they can't live their lives on what ifs. Only the path taken can be certain, and this is where they are.

"That was lovely, thank you," she says at last, fork clattering to the plate. "You know, we should do this again sometimes. It's not often we get to spend some proper time together, and I do miss that."

"That would be nice," Jorah manages. It would be. More than nice. He's missed her too, and the early days when they took on the world together. Things won't go back to that again, and he can accept that, but it would be nice to take a trip down memory lane every so often. He checks his watch. "We ought to be getting back."

Daenerys glances at the time, sighing reluctantly. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

They gather their things together and head back for the door. Jorah holds it open for her and she steps out first, shivering as the chilly wind howls around her. The temperature has dropped several degrees during their time inside. The sooner they can get back to the office, the better. Even beneath his own thick layers, Jorah shivers.

"Come on," he says to her, "let's hurry."

She nods in agreement, and they jog for the entrance of the alleyway, where the low thrum of human activity beckons them.

It happens in a split-second.

One moment Jorah is hurrying at Daenerys' back, the next he's pinwheeling uselessly through the air.

One moment his foot is on solid pavement, the next it's sliding on nothing.

Everything is slow motion. He's aware of his stomach lurching, the wind on his face, the sudden weightlessness of his body. He doesn't have time to shout out a warning.

Daenerys shrieks as his body collides with the back of hers. Not expecting his weight, she does not have time to try to find her balance.

They crash to the floor with a painful thud. Daenerys cries out again.

As quickly as he can, Jorah rolls to the side. His knee throbs, but that is the least of his worries right now. He reaches out and shakes Daenerys' shoulder.

"Are you all right?" he asks her frantically. "Khaleesi, look at me."

"Oh, fuck," she says through gritted teeth.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay."

She doesn't sound it; pain laces her tone. He struggles to his feet, wincing at the grimy state of his clothes.

"Here, give me your hand," he says. "Let me help you."

She takes a moment to compose herself, then reaches out for him. He wraps his fingers around her delicate ones, which are trembling with effort. He crouches so she can press her other hand to his shoulder, giving her a stable base to push off from. She does so, then flinches when she tries to put her left ankle back to the floor.

Shit. He's hurt her. Unthinkingly, he reaches out to grasp her ankle, but she jerks out of his hold. He backs off at once, shame souring the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry," he offers.

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I've hurt you."

"I've had worse in the past," she says grimly. That doesn't make him feel any better. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

She gestures to the leg of his trousers, and he realise that it's ripped open over his left knee. He parts the folds to inspect the damage. It smarts, and it's bleeding, but it's not the worst injury he's ever had, either.

"I'm fine," he says.

"It looks pretty painful."

"I'll survive." He turns to inspect the patch of black ice that had been lurking in the shadows. "I'm so sorry. I should have been paying more attention to where I was putting my feet."

"I didn't see it either. These things happen. Let's just head back, shall we?"

The brusque change of tone stings more than the open wound on his knee, but Jorah only nods, steeling himself against the pain in the centre of his heart. He takes his first steps, then wheels around when he hears he hissed expletive behind him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks worriedly. Daenerys stands with one hand pressed against the wall to take keep her balance, her foot set very gingerly indeed on the ground. It doesn't look like she can bear any weight on that ankle.

She's nothing if not as stubborn as he is. Nodding, she tries to take a step forward, biting her lip so hard he's sure she'll make it bleed. He hurries back to her side, halting her with a hand on her shoulder.

"You can't get anywhere like that," he says.

"Of course I can. Move, Jorah."

He stays firm. "Do you want to cause yourself more damage? You could have broken something for all you know." He doesn't think so, but until someone with more expertise can take a look he'd rather not risk it.

She scowls at him. "Well, what are you suggesting? That I stand by this wall all day like a fool? Don't be stupid."

"More stupid than walking all the way back to the office with your ankle like that?" he shoots back grumpily. "I can call Barristan or Torgo or Daario, get one of them to pick us up." Gods, knowing his luck it'll be Daario. Then he'll have to play gooseberry.

Bu Daenerys shakes her head. "I haven't got time to waste like that. I'll manage."

She makes to take another step forward, but he blocks her path. She cranes her neck to glower up at him, amethyst eyes flashing with ire.

"Jorah," she warns. "You're testing my patience."

"I'm not letting you risk hurting yourself further," he reiterates stubbornly.

She huffs. "So what are you gonna do, then? Stand here all day, keeping me penned in like a lamb?"

"No," he says, "I'm going to do this."

Before he can even think it through or talk himself out of it, he moves forward with the old swiftness of a man used to being on high alert, bending at the waist to wrap one arm around the crook in Daenerys' knees and the other around the small of her back.

"What are you—?" she begins, but the end of her question is cut off by a squeal as he hoists her up into his arms. She scrabbles uselessly for a moment but he pays her no mind, taking his first steps forward and back out onto the busy main street.

Her fist thumps against his shoulder.

"Put me down!" she demands.

"No," he says. "I've told you, I won't have you injuring yourself anymore. This is my fault. The least I can do is make sure you don't damage yourself further." And she would. She's made of the same mettle as him, stubborn to the core and determined to do the opposite of what people advise her. It's an admirable trait, but not when it comes to a situation like this.

"There's no need. You're being ridiculous."

"I let you have your own way in everything. I'm not letting you have it in this. So indulge me, even if it's the only time you ever do."

She quiets after that. It's a victory he'll take, and a rare one at that. He revels in it, especially when her slim arm snakes around his shoulders and holds on there. Trusting him to get her to safety. Trusting him enough to have the power.

His own leg jolts through with pain with each step he takes, but he sets his jaw and ignores the burning fire that races down the joint every time he puts pressure on it. The last thing he wants is another accident, and he keeps his gaze focused on the ground in front of him, ever-vigilant for another treacherous patch of ice. People cast them curious looks as they pass, the modern-day knight carrying his princess away from danger.

It takes an age to reach the offices once more. By the time he reaches the doors, his legs are trembling with the effort of keeping on, and his arms have started to go numb with the sweet weight of her. They've exchanged not a word since his plea to her, and he's sure the only thing that's kept him going for so long is the feel of her fingers idly raking through the curls at the back of his neck. He doubt she even realises she's doing it; her head has been turned away from his the whole way, eyes trained in the distance. He doesn't know what's been running through her mind, nor dare he ask.

And it's been difficult enough concentrating on anything else when she's right there in his arms, in a way he never thought she'd be, with his fingers mapping the strong muscles in the backs of her thighs and his palm supporting the elegant curve of her spine. The warmth of her body seeps through her clothes and into him. Her hair tickles his nose with every gust of the wind, teasing him with its faintly perfumed scent.

He walks through the door, gritting his teeth with the effort of keeping going. He's almost there now.

Irri springs to her feet at once when she sees them.

"Khaleesi!" she cries, rounding the front desk and hurrying across to them. "What happened!?"

"A small accident, nothing more," she reassures her. "Jorah, you can put me down now."

He does so, with a touch of reluctance, but he understands her desire not to appear foolish in front of her employees. She winces again when she bears weight on the foot, but hobbles forward nevertheless, slow and uneven. Irri stares after them as he hurries to catch her up. She might not want him to assist her, but he will be damned if he lets her go on her own.

Thankfully, it doesn't take them too long to reach the lift, and Daenerys slumps against the mirrored wall as they begin their smooth ascent. Jorah keeps his eyes on his shoes, hyper-aware now of the soft breaths leaving her lungs and the shift of her clothes against her skin.

The lift dings, bringing him out of his reverie. Daenerys pushes her way in front of him, limping heavily, cheeks red from the effort.

The office falls silent at once. People stare at her as she limps past, Jorah shadowing her back. They cut a very dishevelled pair, muddy and drenched as they are. No doubt tongues will be wagging soon enough. Daenerys keeps her head high anyway, regal as she is, giving no indication that anything is amiss. As her faithful servant, he can do nothing but the same.

As soon as her office door is closed behind them, she lets the façade drop, using the desk to take some of her weight. She drops into her chair, little beads of sweat accumulating on her forehead.

"I'm going to fetch Samwell Tarly," he tells her.

She groans. "No, don't do that! He'll wonder what in seven hells I'm kicking a fuss up at." She narrows her eyes. "_I'm _not even the one kicking up the fuss. It's you. So just leave it be."

It won't deter him. "I won't rest easy until I know you're not too badly hurt. He's first aid trained."

"And I've told you, I don't need you fussing over me."

They glare at each other, at a stalemate, neither one of them prepared to back down.

There's a knock on the door. Relieved to have a momentary break from the tension, Jorah glances up to find Tyrion standing in the threshold, looking as cheerful as ever. He ought to have known. If there's one person who doesn't know any fear of the dragon's wrath, it's the dwarf.

"_Things like that pass about three feet over my head," _he's fond of saying, as happy to poke fun at himself as he is at anyone else.

"Not interrupting anything, am I?" he asks.

"No," Daenerys says tersely.

"Good." He waddles further into the room, closing the door behind them. "You look like shit, by the way."

"Thanks," she says sarcastically. "You certainly know how to cheer someone up."

"One of my many charms." He glances between them, a distinctly wicked grin on his face. "You know, if you wanted to fuck each other, you could have just done it in a bed like a normal couple."

"_What?" _Daenerys splutters, her pale complexion reddening further. "That's ridiculous!"

Tyrion picks an invisible piece of lint from his arm. "Is it?"

"_Yes," _Jorah growls for her, hand twitching into a fist. He wonders if Daenerys would give him permission to give him another good smack.

"Well, what else could you have been doing together?" Tyrion snickers. "Having a very robust mud fight?"

Jorah's not in the mood. "Lay off, Lannister."

"Of course, mud wrestling usually happens without the involvement of clothes. I've seen some fine ones in my time. Usually between two women. I highly recommend it. You might even enjoy it, Mormont, if you gave yourself the chance to."

"Enough," Daenerys snaps. "Do you actually have anything constructive to say, or have you just come in here to gloat?"

"Just gloat, really," he shrugs. "Unfortunately, I can see you're in one of those terribly dull moods, so I'll take my leave of you until you can find your senses of humour. You probably left them in the mud."

Daenerys grits her teeth, seeming to swell in size like a miniature dragon. "I mean it, Tyrion…!"

He holds his hands up. "I'm going, I'm going. I'm beginning to think you haven't had a quickie in a back alley somewhere after all. No one could be that miserable if they'd just had a good shag. Unless Mormont really is that bad…"

Surprisingly, it's Daenerys who seems to take more offence to the comment—she grabs a diary from her desk and launches it at his head. It misses by a mile, and he ducks out of the room, sniggering to himself. Jorah shifts awkwardly, not sure where he should look. The cold prickling of shame is back again, reminding him of the vast chasm between them.

"Bloody git," she mutters, lowering herself into her chair. "He always has to turn things into some kind of big joke, doesn't he?"

"That's Tyrion," Jorah mumbles. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach is getting harder and harder to ignore, and he has to get out before he shows too much of his emotions to her. Impenetrable as a rock, that's what he's tried to be, but it's so very hard not to crumble with the emotions that erode him daily. "Will you be all right if I leave you now?"

She looks surprised, but nods. "Of course I will. I can always get Missandei if I need something."

"Right." He gestures to himself. "Better go and clean up too."

He doesn't wait for her permission to leave, hurrying out of the office as quickly as he can. He just wants to forget this embarrassing mishap ever happened.

Harder to forget is the look of horror on Daenerys' face at the mere teasing that something more could have happened between them. And as much as he tries to tell himself he doesn't care, that it doesn't matter, he's only lying, trying to paper over a crack that grows wider and wider by the day.

Because, oh, how he cares. And, oh, how it matters.

* * *

"_Not everyone cares for Christmas cards. I understand that feeling myself. I've often thought them a waste of precious resources, empty gestures to people you rarely interact with. But they don't have to be. Sometimes something as simple as a Christmas card can bring light to the darkest of days, because they can be reminders that the people you love the most have you in their thoughts too. You can laugh. I freely admit I'm sentimental in my old age. Don't pretend you don't enjoy them either. I know you do. You're the one who has the box of memories, and I'm certain I've seen a few old ones in there…"_

* * *

The Christmas cards start trickling through right from the start of December. He receives the first one from Irri with a shy smile, then the next from Missandei. Cards aren't something a man really sends, but at the same time Jorah feels that he ought to. He doesn't have a partner to do it for him, unlike Torgo, whose name is on the bottom of Missandei's. So he buys a pack with the intention of sending one to whoever sends him one first. He doesn't have the patience to sit and write one for everyone, and especially not for other men, who wouldn't appreciate it and would only take the piss out of him for it anyway. Since the unfortunate ice incident he's given Tyrion as wide a berth as possible.

Unfortunately, he hasn't seen much of Daenerys in that time, either. He has a horrible feeling that she's been avoiding him, and he's been too ashamed to seek her out.

He writes a card for her anyway and leaves it on her desk so he doesn't have to hand it to her himself.

It's another couple of days before he receives one back.

That too is left on his desk for him to find. He's as familiar with her handwriting as he is with his own, the letters looping in a pretty cursive that's as elegant as she is.

Jorah walks over to it, glancing around. It doesn't appear that Barristan or Torgo is going to turn up any time soon, and he's seen Daario lingering about upstairs, no doubt awaiting an opportunity to see Daenerys himself, so there's no danger of him being interrupted there either. Which is stupid, really, because it's just a card, but he wants to savour the moment by himself without someone else making it into something for him to be embarrassed by. He sits himself down behind his desk and slides his finger under the envelope's edge, prising it open. The card inside slides out easily.

He opens it with a fair amount of trepidation, not quite sure what to expect.

What he does read brings a lump to his throat.

_To Jorah,_

_Have a very Merry Christmas. You deserve to have the best one yet. I hope the holiday season is filled with everything you've ever dreamed of. I have a good feeling that it will be._

_Lots of love,_

_Daenerys x_

It hurts to swallow past that lump. A good sort of pain. An ache in his chest that's so intimately connected to her. Nothing else comes close.

_Lots of love._

He has no doubt that she does love him. It might not be in the way that two lovers love each other, but it's a real and true love nevertheless, and probably all the stronger for the way it's been tested and torn, but never broken. Never broken. He treasures her friendship. He always will. He's glad they've been able to rebuild the bridges that were burned. He's glad that he can still make her laugh and she can still make him laugh and they can confide their dreams and fears in each other. Some people don't even have that with their lovers. He knows there's a hard shell around her heart, thickened by the heartbreak she has been through in the past, and she does not open herself up easily to others. Not to Tyrion, who is sharp and shrewd. Not to Barristan, who is a father-like figure she's never had. Perhaps with Missandei, who is a very dear friend to her and would never betray a confidence.

But he can't see her sharing pillow-talk dreams with Daario, even if he is her lover. Is that a victory for him? He counts it. Daario might have Daenerys' body, but he does not have her trust, not like he does.

He should count his blessings for that more often.

_Lots of love._

The card has put things into perspective. He needs to stop acting like a prick and treasure the things he does have. He loves her and would like more, that's a natural human reaction, but it doesn't mean that he has to mope and be moody about it.

_Lots of love._

Isn't it better this way? To have some light in his miserable life?

Of course it is. He'd be a fool to think otherwise.

But now he feels a little guilty too. His card had been very simple and to the point. The only thing he'd allowed himself was her affectionate nickname.

_To Khaleesi, Merry Christmas,_ _from Jorah_.

That was how he'd signed it after an agonising time, too afraid of stirring up those old memories again. Now, compared with Daenerys' card, it seems cold and aloof.

He's in love with her. But he loves her as a friend too. Sometimes they blur. Mostly they coexist.

Let the others mock him. Let them tease him about being _Ser Friendzone_, Master of his lonely bed for one. Their words are insignificant. He has the proof of the only thing that matters right here, in black and white, in Daenerys' own hand.

_Lots of love._

They might have been out of sync with each other over the last few of days, isolated by embarrassment, but the words on the page have settled him.

_Lots of love._

No matter what happens, he'll always have that.

As easily as that, the black clouds that have been shadowing him melt away, leaving only a sunny outlook in their wake.

He even catches himself humming a Christmas tune under his breath as he goes about his day.

* * *

"_Gifts are what most people like best about the Christmas season, true. The excitement of waiting for Santa to arrive, the anticipation of sneaking downstairs at the crack of dawn to make sure he's been...there's nothing better than that. But we should also take the opportunity to do something nice for other people too. Be Santas ourselves, as it were. Before Christmas, we should each buy something for each other that comes from the heart. Not a gift from Santa, but a gift from ourselves. Something that lets our loved ones know how much they mean to us. It doesn't have to be something grandiose. A kiss and a kind word is enough. Don't look at me like that. What do you mean, I always get so uptight about the Secret Santa part? I don't! I just think you should get things for people that they damned well want…"_

* * *

It's one of the traditions that Jorah dreads most of all about the holiday season. More than the garish Christmas decorations, more than the awful Christmas songs, more than the prying questions about who he's spending Christmas Day with.

Secret Santa.

Whoever came up with the concept ought to be cut down with a greatsword of old.

Daenerys, of course, is in hearty disagreement with that. It's yet another aspect of Christmas she is determined to enjoy.

And so they gather in the main office, with a Santa hat with everyone's name in clutched in Daenerys' hand. She brings it round each of them and they each come away with a tiny scrap of folded paper clutched like a prize. They exchange glances with one another, some looking horrified, no doubt with no idea what to get the person scribed on that fateful bit of paper, others looking downright gleeful. Trepidation rises in his chest as the hat gets nearer and nearer to him.

"Go on, then," Daenerys prods when she reaches him, shaking the hat under his nose. He reaches in, half-afraid that it's going to grow teeth and bite his wrist off, but no; he comes out clutching a piece of paper just like everyone else. Once she's moved on, and aware that Daario is trying to not-so-subtly sneak a peek at who he's got, he opens the thing and peers at the name.

Barristan. Not too bad, really. He enjoys a certain brand of Dornish wine, and it will make a decent present.

Now he's more worried about who has got him. Gods, if it's Daario he thinks he might have to throw himself off the roof. It's bound to be something condescending. Probably a bottle of Viagra or something. And he isn't sure he'd have enough self-control not to smack the smug little shit in the face.

They've got a week and a budget of four silver stags. Sometimes he's still hurrying around the shops on the final day trying to find something suitable for someone he's barely exchanged two words with in his time. Thankfully this year will be a lot easier. He can pick it up on the way home and forget about it until it's time to bring them in.

Over the next week, it's the topic of conversation nearly everywhere he turns. People complaining that they have no idea what they should get or whispering and giggling between themselves. Jorah is pretty sure that several of them know who each other has got. He bloody wishes _he _could find out who's got him. It would stop the gnawing anxiety in the pit of his stomach. But that's not how this game works. He's going to have to suffer in silence for a while longer.

The day his misery is set to end soon arrives. He's not an expert in wrapping up, so he's shoved his poor attempt in a bottle bag in order to hide it from the rest of his work colleagues. He places it in the room with the rest of them, only just resisting the urge to rifle through them looking for his. The grand ceremony is only hours away, after all.

It's scheduled for lunch time, and the whole contingent squashes itself into the office. Grinning, Daenerys takes charge, a much prettier version of Father Christmas.

"You can leave a present under my tree anytime!" says Daario, and Bronn and Tyrion snort with laughter. Daenerys smiles, but she doesn't rise to the bait, focusing instead on the huge pile of presents in front of her. She picks them up one by one, reading out the name tags. The receiver makes the walk of shame, and people crane their neck to get a better look at the gift as they're unwrapped in the middle of the group. Every time she picks up a present, Jorah's heart rises to his throat, only to drop like a stone each time when someone else's name is called. The pile dwindles and dwindles.

At last, Daenerys picks out her own, to cheers and whoops. Laughing, she pulls the paper apart. Despite himself, Jorah finds himself craning for a better look. Gods, he hopes it isn't some sweeping romantic gesture. That's the last thing he wants to be subjected to.

Thankfully, his wishes are answered. It's a dainty set of bath bombs. Most likely to be from Missandei. From the look on her face, they're the perfect type, and no one on earth would know that more than the little Naathian.

Barristan's is next. He seems pleased enough with his present, so Jorah takes that as a victory.

Now he just has to wait on tenterhooks for his own name.

The process drags on. And on. And on.

Until they're down to the last present.

Daenerys reads out the last name. It's Torgo's. He strolls forward to collect his, receiving some kind of handy penknife.

It appears his Secret Santa has forgotten him.

Daenerys frowns. "Where's Jorah's present?"

No one moves. Every pair of eyes swivels towards him. He wishes he could melt into the background.

"Who didn't get Jorah one!?" Daenerys demands.

No one is going to admit to that.

"Honestly, it's fine," Jorah says. It is. He's glad to have been spared the embarrassment of having to be centre of attention and pretending to be ecstatic about something like a voucher.

"It's not fine," she counters. "You got someone a present and now you haven't got one for yourself."

"I'm not bothered."

"_I'm _bothered. It's not fair." Her eyes flash, and despite himself Jorah feels the corner of his mouth tugging upwards. Trust Daenerys to get herself worked up over a pointless injustice like a missing Secret Santa gift. She's the champion of the underdog right down to the smallest thing. "Jorah's present better be on my desk tomorrow morning."

Tyrion coughs. "And on that note, should we get back to work?"

Everyone slinks back to their posts. Jorah is grateful to slink away with them.

Unfortunately, his peace isn't to last. Just ten minutes later there's a knock on the office door. It opens to reveal Tyrion Lannister standing there.

"Are you alone?" he asks.

"No. I'm standing in here with a hundred other people."

"You've still got some work to do on that sense of humour."

Jorah rolls his eyes. "Is there a reason why you're here? I've got things to do."

"Yes, I can see you're positively snowed under," Tyrion says sarcastically, sweeping a stubby hand around the empty office. "But it won't take a minute." He slips his hand into his jacket and pulls out a neatly wrapped present.

"Ah," Jorah deadpans, "so _that's _where my present went." Inside, his heart sinks. The idea that Tyrion is his secret Santa is simply mortifying. Whatever he's got him, it can't be anything good. The little Lannister barely knows how to take anything seriously, and he frequently likes to make his life hell.

"It is," says Tyrion, holding it out like it's the crown jewels.

"And can I ask why you didn't just give it with the rest of them?"

"You can. But that would rather spoil the surprise, wouldn't it."

"That doesn't sound reassuring. It would be my bad luck that you of all people pulled my name out of the hat."

"You wound me. I should keep it for myself now."

"I wouldn't complain."

"Gods, you're dull. It makes me wonder why Daenerys keeps you around at all."

The comment stings more than he cares to admit. He swallows his hurt pride and hold out his hand.

"Give it here, then," he growls.

"Such appreciation for my kindness." Tyrion holds out his hand, and Jorah takes the gift, shaking the box experimentally. He can't hear the contents rattling. He isn't sure if that's a good sign or not.

"Thank you," he says gruffly.

"You're welcome. Don't open it at work," Tyrion says cheerfully.

"Why?" Jorah demands. "What in seven hells have you got for me!?"

"You'll like it, I promise."

"That doesn't answer the question, Lannister. I swear if it's something inappropriate…!"

"…You'll slap me in the face," Tyrion finishes for him. "The Mormont way, yes, yes, I'm all too aware of that." He rubs his jaw, as if he can feel the shadow of a previous punch. "Just trust me on this, okay? I'm not always a little shit."

"Fine," Jorah mutters darkly, stowing the box under his desk. "I'll open it later."

"And you can thank me again tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mormont. Try a smile. It won't hurt you."

Whistling, Tyrion turns and goes, leaving Jorah to wonder about the contents of the box. His unease hasn't abated at all.

* * *

Bit by bit, people begin to filter out, another day done. They wish him a good night as they leave and he raises his hand in acknowledgement. His shift isn't over for a little while yet. Not until Daenerys leaves. And he suspects that won't be for a while. She's meticulous. He'll have to catch her before she leaves to let her know that he's received a present after all. He doesn't want her going around interrogating everyone to try and sniff out who had shirked their duties.

Though it would be amusing to watch. Daenerys can be quite intimidating when she wants to be.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to wait that long to spot her. He hears the click of her heels on the tiles, instantly recognisable for he is attuned to everything she is, and he hurries to the door to catch her.

"Khaleesi," he calls.

She turns. "Jorah. Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head. "You'll be pleased to know that my Secret Santa gift has turned up."

Her face lights up. "Really? Oh, good. I wasn't looking forward to having to come down hard on anyone."

He bites his tongue against the accidental double entendre her words have created in his mind. "No, it's all sorted."

"What was it?"

"I haven't opened it yet."

"Why not?" she says, and he smiles at her innocent indignation that he could possibly have waited to find out the contents.

"I was told to wait by my Secret Santa."

Daenerys sighs. "Well, that's ruined the magic of it a bit, hasn't it? Who was it?"

"Tyrion Lannister."

"I should have known."

"Well, I must admit that I don't mind that he didn't give it to me in front of everyone."

She snorts at that. "No, I don't suppose you do." Then she narrows her eyes. "Well, show it to me. I want to make sure you're not lying to me to cover for someone else."

"Shrewd as ever," he teases. "And you know I would never lie to you." At least, not about something that matters. He lies to himself and to her every single day by pretending that he's not aching inside with yearning for her.

A shadow passes over her face, but it's gone before he can blink. "Lead the way, then."

He gestures for her to follow him into the office, then rounds his desk to pick up the box, presenting it to her. "Here you are. There's the proof of it."

"Go on, then, open it!" Daenerys encourages.

"Tyrion said to open it when I'm alone," he reminds her.

"So? What could possibly be that bad? Besides, it's only me. And I saw everyone else open theirs. It's only right that I should see you open yours too."

"Fine," he concedes; he can deny her nothing, even when his head tells him that it would probably be better to. He picks up the little square card first and tears open the envelope. Daenerys moves around the desk to peer over his shoulder and he lowers the card slightly so she can read the words too.

_Dear Mormont,_

_Because everyone deserves a happy ending sometimes, even miserable old bastards like you._

"What does that mean?" Daenerys frowns.

Jorah shrugs. Buggered if he knows. Tyrion always likes to mystify, saying that he has a fantastic mind, but messages like this just make him seem like a rambling madman. Still, there's nothing else for it. He can't deny that he isn't a bit curious himself to find out what the Lannister has bought for him. So he works his finger into the crease of the wrapping up paper and peels back the Sellotape. Daenerys leans forward eagerly, more excited than he is to get a glimpse of what's inside.

He frees it enough, gets his hand inside, and pulls out the contents.

His eyes lock on to the object through the clear plastic cellophane. Daenerys leans closer, evidently not computing what her eyes are seeing, then squeals, jerking back.

Jorah swears vehemently, dropping the object as if it had scalded him.

A male masturbator. The little bastard's bought him a fucking _male masturbator_.

Daenerys blinks, evidently unsure of what to make of it all.

"Well," she says, her voice a whole octave higher than it usually is. "That's…interesting."

"Tyrion's idea of a joke," says Jorah quickly. "You know what he's like. He takes any opportunity he can to piss me off. This was just another chance to do so. I've never wanted anything like this. It's not my kind of thing. If I wanted anything like that, I'd go after the real thing."

Daenerys flushes bright pink. Gods, he's making a right royal mess of this.

"Well," she says, voice still high-pitched, not looking at him, "at least they mystery is over now. I'll see you tomorrow, Jorah."

And before he can utter another word, she hurries out of the room, leaving him standing there alone with nothing but a vulgar sex toy for company. He grips his hair at his scalp with a fist, just resisting the urge to tear at it in frustration. Of all the _fucking _things Lannister could have embarrassed him with. He would have taken anything over that. But now Daenerys can't look at him, and he is reminded again of what a poor job he really does at pretending to the world that he isn't head over heels in love with her. It's another reminder for her, too. No wonder she scarpered as soon as she was able. It's a wound that will never heal over; all they can do is keep it clean and hope it doesn't bleed free again. Constantly prodding it will only cause it to fester and hurt all the more.

They don't need outside reminders of his folly. But the gods are cruel enough to have put him in close quarters with Tyrion Lannister.

He's going to _kill _him when he sees him tomorrow.

* * *

Jorah waits in the lobby, prowling the area like a predator waiting for his prey. Tyrion will be lucky if he doesn't get torn into tiny pieces.

Missandei and Torgo enter together, holding hands. They stop short when they see him.

"Jorah?" Missandei questions cautiously. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look it," says Torgo with his usual abruptness.

Jorah bares his teeth in a grimace. He probably looks quite mad, for Missandei's look of alarm only grows.

"Well, if you're sure," she squeaks. "We'll leave you to it." She tugs on Torgo's hand and he follows her. They glance uneasily over their shoulders at him.

He shakes his head. If he carries on at this rate, he'll be the talk of the office.

Thankfully, he only has to wait a few minutes longer before he hears whistling coming closer. Only one person whistles like that, a jaunty Westerosi tune.

As soon as Tyrion enters the building, Jorah catches him by the scuff of the neck, lifting him clean off his feet. He's heavier than he looks, but Jorah is pretty strong too, and he hauls him across the lobby to the hall.

"What the fuck, Mormont?" Tyrion cries.

Jorah drops him unceremoniously in a pile. He swears again, rubbing at his arse.

"What are you doing?" he asks reproachfully.

"This," says Jorah, and does what he's been fantasising about all night, landing a clean blow on Tyrion's chin. He tumbles back to the ground.

"What was _that_ for?" he says, rubbing at the sore spot, rotating his jaw as if to test that it's not been broken. It hasn't. More's the pity.

"I opened your little present," he growls.

"I thought it was inspired."

"You thought wrong."

"You just have no imagination, that's your problem."

"No, my problem is the fact that you bought me a ridiculous gift that Daenerys saw."

Tyrion blinks. _"What?"_

"_Daenerys saw,"_ he repeats through gritted teeth.

The dwarf throws back his head and starts to laugh uncontrollably. "What part of 'wait until you're alone' did you not understand, you fucking idiot? Oh, gods, that is sheer brilliance."

"It's not funny!"

"It's _hilarious_! Fucking _hell_!"

Jorah glowers, his blood simmering, but it has no effect at all on Tyrion, who continues to laugh. He'd quite like to wrap his hands around his throat and shut the sound off.

"I don't know why you bought something like that. It's an embarrassment."

Tyrion flaps his hand. "_You're _the embarrassment. We all know you won't go out and find a real woman to fuck because you're too in love with Daenerys. I was simply thinking of practical ways you could stop your balls from turning blue without agonising for the next twenty years about betraying her in some non-existent way."

Jorah's fists twitch; he would dearly love to give the dwarf another punch for that. "You said you weren't a little shit. I believed you. More fool me."

"No, I said I wasn't _always _a little shit," Tyrion manages beginning to laugh again, fat tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks. "I didn't say I wasn't being a little shit _then_! But you've made it all the more priceless for being stupid enough to open the bloody thing in front of Daenerys. They say that northerners are slow, but I didn't realise they were as stupid as you. You've given me cheer for the rest of the year."

Still chuckling to himself, he waddles down the corridor, leaving Jorah behind feeling worse than he had done before.

* * *

"_I'm not religious. I never have been, really. Old gods, new gods, drowned gods, lords of light…none of them mean anything to me. Doesn't mean I'm right. Doesn't mean I think everyone should see things the same way I do. Faith can be a beautiful thing. And I've had moments in my life over the last decade where the beauty I've witnessed has made me believe that there may be gods out there after all. And who is to say that there can't be more than one god? That the old gods _and _the new gods can coexist together? You were blessed in the light of the Seven, and one of the most truly beautiful sights in the world is the Sept of Baelor at Christmas, with the candles and the incense burning, and voices lifted in song. Even I could pray to the Seven then…"_

* * *

Jorah's never been a religious man. Gods, white walkers, the legend of Azor Ahai, all of them were just stories to him. As a boy, he was fearless. As a man, he's simply jaded. He's seen too many bad things in the world to believe in the reality of gods. Gods would not let them suffer as they do if they existed.

He's an exception to the rule, he knows this. Northerners worship the old gods, the silent, ones who weep red tears through the weirwood trees, whose bloody eyes always made him feel as if something was watching him. Not something otherworldly…but something he wasn't comfortable with, either.

Like many others, Daenerys' family had transitioned to worshipping the Seven. She never speaks much about her beliefs, and he has a feeling she's as agnostic as he is, for she has suffered enough horrors to stay away from the gods, but he supposes there's something about Christmas that makes people turn back to things they might once have shied away from.

"I want to go to the Sept of Baelor on Friday," she tells him one day as she's heading out the door to a meeting, Barristan loitering by the entrance.

It's the first moment of peace they've had since the Secret Santa reveal. He's been avoiding her; hasn't been sure what to say to her, or how to move past the fact that she saw what she saw. She probably thinks he's a desperate old letch, lonely and reduced to that because he's so fixated on her. He wants to tell her that it isn't true, that he knows she owes him nothing, that he's happy to still be her friend, but the words get stuck in his throat and what's the point in raking all that up again, anyway?

"There's a carol concert there. I'd like to see it. Would you come with me? I don't really want to go on my own. The Seven aren't Missandei or Torgo's gods. I definitely don't want to end up going with someone like Tyrion."

"They're not my gods, either," Jorah points out, his lip curling upwards.

She glowers at him. "Must you always pick up on me like that?"

"Like what?"

She scowls, evidently not impressed with his teasing. "You know what. Fine, if you want me to say it I'll say it. I want you to come to the concert with me, Jorah. You're my dearest friend and I would enjoy you being there with me. I know it's not something you'd ordinarily be interested in, but…"

But he can never say no to anything she asks of him. If she asked him to carve open his chest and pull out his still-beating heart for her inspection, he'd do it.

"Of course I'll come with you if you want me to," he says. "I'll admit, it's not something I would ordinarily choose to do, but it might not be too bad. It is that time of the year. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to get in the festive spirit."

She beams at him. "Thank you. I'll get the tickets, shall I?"

"If you want."

True to her word, she does; that very evening she texts him to let him know that she's been successful in her endeavour.

Two days later they arrange to meet outside the great sept.

Jorah arrives there first, milling about outside as he waits for Daenerys to make her appearance. His breath frosts in the air, and he glances up at the great structure, towering a hundred feet above his head. It's been standing for centuries, this place. Legend has it that nothing has been able to tear it down, not wind, not rain, not storm, not even wildfire. It stands as tall and proud as the day it was built. _Here I stand_, he muses.

He's interrupted from his thoughts by Daenerys' arrival.

She looks beautiful. Suitably ruffled, her silver hair spilling out from beneath her woollen hat, her cheeks red from the chill, her violet eyes bright with excitement.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologises. "I was held up at home."

"Oh?" he says as casually as he can. In his head he sees Daario, lithe and tanned, lying in her bed like a jungle cat, trying to entice her to stay in the warmth with him.

"The cats," she supplies, and his heart lifts instantly. "Drogon was being a pain up the arse."

Jorah laughs. "Drogon likes to let Rhaegal and Viserion know that he's the one in charge."

"And he's a nightmare with it sometimes. Honestly, I don't know what he and Rhaegal were fighting about, but in the end I had to put them in different rooms. Hopefully they'll be calmer when I get home. I can't be dealing with that all night. If only they were as well-behaved as Viserion. He's a sweetheart. Nothing like my brother was. It's ironic, really."

She rarely talks about her brother these days. Jorah knows she has conflicted feelings, both about him and about Drogo, who she grew to love and who loved her in turn, but really only treated her like a piece of property—_his _property. She was sold from her brother's possession to her lover's, and it was only with losing them both and finding herself that she began to realise that.

They begin to walk inside, past the beautifully ornate doors into the vast hall within. The rafters are so high that the ceiling can barely be seen, the towering pillars like something from a giant's land. It's not a building he's been inside very often, but he can't deny that it does inspire awe. The worshippers of the Seven certainly love style. It puts the worship of the old gods to shame.

The place is already filling with other service goers, but Daenerys points out a space on the end of one of the pews on the first row. He follows her down the long altar, ignoring the looks he gets as he passes by. He knows what the other patrons are thinking. What someone like her is doing with someone like him. That he must have a potful of golden dragons to be keeping her. That it can't possibly be a happy relationship.

If they only knew, he thinks, a touch bitterly.

Daenerys files into the pew first and he remains on the final seat in the row, glancing at his watch. The service is due to start any minute. She fidgets beside him, wringing her hands in her lap, head turning this way and that as she takes in the ostentatious decorations around them. She's enchanted by it all. It's not even the fact that she has much faith in the gods. It's simply another Christmas tradition that she has to see through, one which clearly means a lot to her.

She catches him looking at her, and blushes.

"Sorry," she says, stilling her hands. I'm excited, that's all."

"No need to apologise," he says. "We all get that way sometimes."

She pauses for a moment, as if she's debating telling him something profound, then leans in towards him. His breath catches in his throat as her warm breath ghosts his ear.

"Viserys used to tell me that my mother brought him here when he was a child," she whispers. "Whenever Christmas came around, they'd come here together, just the two of them, sometimes with Rhaegar. And they'd sing the hymns together. Sometimes, I used to think that talking about our mother was the only thing that ever made Viserys happy. He had his faults, but he loved her with his whole heart. And so, when I was only a child myself, I used to make-believe about this place for myself, pretend that Mother was still alive and waiting to bring me here so we could share in the same things that she and Viserys and Rhaegar did. Coming here…especially at this time of year, gives me a sort of peace, I suppose."

"I never knew it meant so much to you," Jorah says softly, around the lump in his throat. Before he realises what he's doing he reaches out and squeezes her knee. Rather than jerking away from him, she seems to lean closer, eyes returning to the memories.

"I've never told anyone this before," she says.

"Then I'm glad I'm the first, Khaleesi," he says. He is. More than he can say. That she trusts him enough to bare that part of her soul to him, a part that no one else has ever glimpsed before…it's a privilege he can't put into words. Suddenly aware that he still has his hand on her knee, he withdraws it to the pew between them, embarrassed to have been caught out in such an overt act of affection. They have unspoken rules between them. It's a line he's not allowed to cross.

But she doesn't seem to mind. She merely gives him a slightly wobbly smile, more beautiful than ever for its vulnerability, and lapses back into silence. He won't push her for more. There are some things that deserve to remain private, some memories and dreams that are so intimately cherished that they can't possibly be shared with anyone else.

The septon stands then, and a reverent hush falls in those hallowed halls. Jorah turns his attention back to the front, allowing his frail old voice to wash over him. He's not really listening to the words, anyway. He is hyper-aware of Daenerys beside him, the softness of her breath and the rapt look in her eyes as she gazes towards the front.

After a few moments of droning, the septon bids them sing the first hymn. Daenerys opens the cracked old book on the ridge in front of them and he leans in closer to read the words, his mouth stumbling over them, his voice struggling to find the tune. Daenerys takes to it seamlessly, the High Valyrian of her mother tongue coming naturally to her.

They sit there together, soaking up the uplifting message of hope, fingers mere centimetres apart.

* * *

"_We shouldn't forget to hang mistletoe in every doorway in the house. Hey, don't scrunch your nose up like that. It's not that bad when we meet under it, is it? It's gross? Charming. Well, never mind. I still like catching you under there. It's a good reminder for me to hold you all close and treasure what I have. I'm very lucky. Just make sure you keep meeting the right person under it, eh…Ouch!"_

* * *

The day that Jorah's been dreading more than any other arrives.

The day of the Christmas party.

It's not something he ever wants to join in with. It's not like he doesn't know how to enjoy himself, but spending his precious time off with people like Tyrion and Bronn, who do nothing but drink and exchange ribald jokes, isn't his idea of fun. If he's going to get drunk, he'd rather do it alone, where he can lapse into long, sullen silences and think maudlin thoughts.

But Daenerys would never forgive him if he wasn't there, and so he resigns himself to going. He pulls on his best shirt and his nicest pair of dress trousers, before heading out the door.

Daenerys has organised it in the Red Keep, the swankiest hotel in town. It's the place where the stars go to socialise, and they're putting on quite a show tonight. Towering Christmas trees decorated in a thousand lights stand sentry outside, and the floor is lined with an actual red carpet up to the door. He shakes his head, reluctantly amused. Fire and blood, a subtle nod to her family words with the scarlet associated with them.

Waiters greet him inside, and he takes a glass of champagne from the proffered tray. Wandering further into the function room, which is already filling up with people, he lets his gaze wander round.

It falls instantly on Daenerys, drawn to her as he always is, like a moth to the irresistible flame. She is fire made flesh, and he is helpless to resist.

She looks breath-taking. Simply breath-taking. Her hair has been done in an elaborate braid, spilling down her back, intricately weaved like some medieval princess'. Missandei's handiwork, no doubt. The young woman has a talent for anything like that. Her dress is a deep shade of burgundy, bringing out the colour of her eyes and offsetting the pale silver of her hair beautifully. Her arms are bare, showing off her slim shoulders, and it's cut low in the back, giving him ample view of her strong shoulder blades. They're made to have kisses run along the ridge, and he takes a hasty gulp of his champagne to distract his thoughts. It's low-cut on the sides too, and from where he is he can see the very top of some kind of mark just beneath the side of her breast, and it makes him go hot all over. A tattoo?

The thought is strangely erotic, and he has to shake away the sudden rush of desire. He's never really considered her having one before, since there are none visible, but it suits her. Tattoos tell stories, and her past is ripe with them. She could weave her whole life story on the tapestry of her skin, and he would be an avid reader.

He has one of his own, and a sorry one at that: the name of his ex-wife, Lynesse, on the top of his bicep, etched into his bloodstream in the early days of their relationship. Now it's covered by a great brown bear reared up on its hind legs, his personal reminder never to forget who he is again, a smear against the gaping wound of his past. It's covered so deeply no one but he will never know his ex's name was there. But it was. Lynesse has left lasting scars that might not be visible to the naked eye, but ones that sting all the same.

"I see you look as cheerful as ever," comes a voice from down by his waist, and he glances down to find Tyrion standing there, most likely already on his third or fourth glass of alcohol. "Honestly, I wonder what gets you to crack a smile."

"Being away from you helps," Jorah retorts.

"Still need to work on that wit, I see. Never mind. Even you might be funny when I'm drunk." He toasts himself, then takes a swig before shooting him a wink. "Enjoying the view, are you?"

"I have no idea what you mean," he says stoically. Or can't I look around the room without it meaning something these days?"

"Oh, you can. Just not where Daenerys is concerned."

"I'm not in the mood for any of this shit, Lannister."

"Oh, you poor lovelorn bastard," says Tyrion, and he sounds almost sorry for him. "You want my advice?"

"Not particularly."

He gets it anyway, for the little Lannister loves the sound of his own voice. "Get out there, see that there's more in the world. Daenerys is one hell of a woman, but she's not the only woman. It's a long shot, but there must be one woman mad enough to like a miserable old arsehole like you. Now, I'll leave you to your thoughts. This is supposed to be a party. You'll make it feel like a funeral if I carry on standing here with you. And there's a lovely young woman standing over there who looks like she could do with a refill."

And with that, the dwarf departs. Jorah scowls at his back, taking another sip of his champagne. He needs something stronger than that.

Not too much later he clutches another tumbler of whiskey in his hand. That's much better. He'll numb quicker with this.

The party goes on around him. He converses where he can, mostly with Barristan and Torgo, who appear as out of place here as he does. They're made of different stuff to the rest of them, raised on the harshness of winter unlike most of Daenerys' other employees; they've seen things in their lives that most wouldn't dream of. Still, Barristan has mellowed in his golden years and Torgo has softened underneath Missandei's gentle touch, and Jorah is the one stuck in stasis. Unable to move forward, scared to look back.

Missandei appears now, a shy smile on her pretty face.

"Dance with me," she says to Torgo, and the young man can deny her nothing. He takes the hand she offers to him and they move off together. Jorah soon loses sight of them amid the other couples.

"Young love," says Barristan, a touch of wistfulness in his tone. "To be like that again, eh?"

Jorah makes a non-committal noise. He's not had enough whiskey for a conversation like that.

Thankfully, he is saved the trouble of answering.

Daenerys sidles up to them, practically glowing. He's glimpsed her on the dancefloor multiple times during the evening, each time with a different partner, though he's spied Daario lingering about several times.

"Hi," she says, squeezing her way between them. Jorah's breath catches as her arm brushes against his. She's standing so close to him that he can smell her perfume, something like amber and musk, a scent that suits the dragon in her. In heels that must be almost four inches high, she towers much taller than usual, though she's still a fair bit shorter than he is.

"Hi," he responds. "Having a good time?"

She nods, grinning. "You?"

"Yes," he lies, not wanting to hurt her feelings. "Can I get you a drink?"

"In a bit," she says brightly. "I wanted to dance first."

"Oh, right. Well, let me know when you're ready and I'll get you one."

She rolls her eyes at him. "I want to dance with _you_."

Involuntarily he glances across at Barristan, who looks as bemused as he feels.

"You want to dance with _me_?" he echoes.

"I do. Come on, it'll be fun."

"I can't dance."

"Neither can I."

"You look a damn sight better than me at it, though," he says, then pauses, feeling his cheeks reddening. Gods, that makes it sound as if he's been watching her all night. Which he has, idly and periodically, but he doesn't want _her _to know that.

She only grins at him. "I bet you've got some good movement in your hips. Come on, don't make me beg. I only do it in certain situations."

He doesn't want to think about what those situations might be, and from the sputtering sound beside him from where Barristan has accidentally inhaled half of his drink, neither does he.

Mostly to steer the conversation away from that territory, he quickly nods his assent. "Fine, if it's really what you want."

"It really is." She holds out her hand to him. He has no choice but to take it, fighting against the urge to close his eyes as her soft fingers twine with his. How can something that will always be wrong feel so very, very right?

"You don't mind if I steal Jorah away for a little while, do you?" she asks Barristan now.

"Not at all," he says. "Go and have fun."

"I'll return him in one piece," she says, then tugs on his hand, leading him into the crowd. He can only follow.

At that very moment, the upbeat notes of _I Wish it Could be Christmas Every Day_ fade away, to be replaced by the slower, softer dulcet tones of Bing Crosby singing about a White Christmas. His nerves, already jangling, reach a fever pitch. If she wasn't gripping his hand so tightly, he'd pull away from her.

Evidently noticing his disquiet, however, Daenerys only pulls him nearer, encouraging him to place his hand on her waist. Jorah acquiesces tentatively, feeling his core temperature rise several more degrees. Her fingers curl around his shoulder, and she steps close into his personal space, so close that her breasts are almost brushing his chest. He can hardly breathe.

She encourages him to sway on the spot with her, moving to rest her head against his chest. Jorah swallows hard, moving the hand on her waist more securely around her. This is like a dream come true, a fantasy come to life.

Daenerys does not speak another word, and he allows his eyes to drift closed for a moment, concentrating on the feel of her in his arms, the delicate weight of her head against him, the smell of her hair in his nostrils, the way she moulds so perfectly against him, as if she was crafted by the gods for this very purpose.

Other couples sway around them; he spies Torgo and Missandei there, two young lovers made for each other. They press their foreheads together, gazing into each other's eyes as Bing Crosby croons on, and Jorah instinctively tightens his hold on Daenerys. Her breath ruffles against him, a sigh of contentment. His heart contracts in his chest. Gods, she's beautiful. So, so beautiful. If he wasn't so hyper-aware of the fact that she views him as nothing more than a friend, he might have risked nudging his head against hers, perhaps feathering a kiss against the crown of her head.

That's part of the fantasy that will never come true. A fantasy he would be a fool to pursue, because Daenerys does not feel that way about him and he does not want to ruin what they have, not when she feels comfortable enough in his company to be with him like this. So he only holds her tight and waits for the end of the three minutes to come.

It comes far too quickly for his liking. Now that he's here with her, he'd play a song that was never-ending if he had the choice. To be with her like this forever…what bliss it wold be.

But Bing melts into Shakin' Stevens, and Daenerys steps away from him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.

"Thank you," she says. "That was lovely."

"We didn't do much dancing," he points out.

She shakes her head stubbornly. "It was perfect just the way it was."

"I'm glad I didn't stand on your toes," he says thickly. "That would rather have ruined it."

"Nothing could have ruined it," she says firmly. "But I will have that drink now. I just need to pop to the ladies'."

"What are you having?"

"A red wine would be great, thanks."

He nods, watches her weave her way through the crowd. When she's out of sight he makes his way towards the bar, placing his order. His heart feels strangely light, and he catches himself grinning at the barman. _Grinning_. Maddening as it is, Tyrion is right about some things: he doesn't smile that often.

Daenerys always gives him reason to smile.

He scours the room when he's got his drinks in hand, wondering if there's a table free and if he can possibly tempt her to sit with him for a while. She has to do the rounds, he knows that, but he's selfish enough to want her to himself for a little while longer.

There's a loud cheer from the front of the room.

Jorah grimaces. Someone—probably Tyrion—has hung a sprig of mistletoe from the doorframe, catching unsuspecting people out. There have been many victims so far, from the unlikely pairing of Irri and Pod, to Torgo and Missandei, who probably deliberately caught each other under there. Not that they need mistletoe to kiss these days. Thankfully, he was fortunate enough to pass through the door when there was no one else around, thus preventing any embarrassing encounters which Tyrion would surely have reminded him of for the rest of his life. He wonders who the poor bastards are now, whether they scheduled the meeting beneath the mistletoe or have been caught unawares and are now unable to escape.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he cranes his neck to see over the crowd.

His blood runs cold, like the rivers on Bear Island.

It's not just anyone standing under the mistletoe.

It's Daenerys.

And she's with Daario.

The young man looks very pleased with himself. He probably _did _orchestrate it so they'd meet there.

Not that Daenerys looks upset by the notion. She's laughing at the people who are catcalling, rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"Come on, then what are you waiting for!?" someone hollers drunkenly. Bronn. "Get your tongue down his throat!"

More laughter, more jeers. Jorah stands rooted to the spot, squeezing the glasses so tightly in his hands that he's dimly afraid that they'll shatter.

A bit like his heart is.

He doesn't want to watch this. He knows what comes next. The shy glances, the anticipation, the arms wrapped around each other, the passion.

He can't look away.

"Come on, then, Your Grace," says Daario with a cocky grin. "We don't want to disappoint our audience, do we?"

Daenerys doesn't have time to answer, but she's certainly not a reluctant participant as Daario wraps his arms around her waist and tugs her to him. More wolf whistles. Jorah's head buzzes. He doesn't want to see it….

Daario lowers his head, and his mouth meets Daenerys'. Soft at first. Then his hand moves up to cradle the back of her scalp, and Jorah knows that he's deepening the kiss.

"That's it, lad!" Bronn cheers. "Get it good!"

He doesn't need to see any more of this. He knows exactly what's going to happen from here. Daario will stick around her all night like a leech, taking every opportunity to show off some inappropriate public displays of affection. And at the end of the night he'll say goodbye to Daenerys and watch her leave with Daario, knowing that she's going back to a passionate tryst whilst he lies alone in bed, trying not to be jealous of something he knows he'll never have.

He turns away, pushing his way back through the crowd, to where Barristan is still standing at the bar.

"Give this to Daenerys when you see her, will you?" he says abruptly, throwing back his whiskey in one mouthful.

"Why, where are you going?" Barristan frowns.

"I've got to go. Something's come up. Unavoidable."

"Like what?" he asks suspiciously.

Jorah grits his teeth. "Look, I don't have to explain myself to you._ If _Daenerys comes looking, just tell her I've had to duck out."

Barristan still looks sceptical, but Jorah doesn't much care. He pushes past him, deliberately skirting the edges of the room until he comes to the fire exit. Making sure no one is watching him, he pushes it open and slips out into the freezing air outside.

He hurries down the fire escape as fast as he can before the clanging of his shoes on the metal steps can draw any attention from inside, leaping the last few steps and hurrying down the alley to one side of the building. He leans against the wall, the rough bricks pressing uncomfortably into his back as he catches his breath. There's silence save for the distant thumping of music from the party above his head. No one had noticed his departure from the party, too distracted by the food and the drink.

Or the mistletoe.

Jorah curls his hands into fists, squeezing tight until his knuckles pop bone-white. Foolish, foolish man. He needs to stop allowing his heart to overrule his head. He has to stop hoping when there's no hope to be had. Daenerys sees him as a friend. She's told him this countless times. He _knows _it, appreciates what he can have from her.

And still he can't stop himself. Each and every time she dangles the carrot in front of his nose he jumps for it like a well-trained rabbit. She doesn't mean to do it, he knows that. They've always had a light, almost flirty relationship. It stems from her feeling at ease with him, from feeling safe in his presence. That does not equate to anything more.

Gods, he's such a fucking idiot for needing reminding of it over and over and over. He can almost see Tyrion now, shaking his head with a sorrowful grimace.

"_Northerners," _he'd say. _"All that snow has frozen any wit they might have had."_

He resists the urge to punch the wall in frustration, but just barely. Turning up to the office on Monday with a broken hand wouldn't do him any good.

What _does _sound like a very good idea right now is the bottle of scotch sitting in his cupboard at home. Drinking until he forgets the image of Daenerys wrapped in Daario's arms, that's what he wants. Until he's numb to the pain. Numb to the fact that his heart has been torn out of his chest anew and lies pulsing its lifeblood at her feet once more. Numb enough to believe that he can live without his heart after all.

He makes the lonely journey home and drinks until he falls asleep.

When he wakes in the morning it's to the worst headache he's had in decades and a heart that is very much still in pain.

* * *

"_Christmas jumpers weren't really a thing when I was young, but look how popular they are now! Everywhere you turn, from the first day in December, they're there. I know you've each got your special favourite, and I think it's an important tradition that we all wear them together. I don't know about you, but it gives me a sense of belonging. A sense of unity. And I like that. That you're my home. No one will ever be able to take that away from us. It might sound ridiculous to outsiders, but it's the truth. I was a cynic once. Saw them as just another way of commercialising Christmas. But now…now I see them as a sense of identity. And there's no one else I would rather share that with than all of you."_

* * *

Over the last few years, the popularity of Christmas Jumper Day has skyrocketed. Jorah can remember a time when no one even thought about doing that kind of thing. The only jumpers that existed were the warm, practical ones to combat the cold weather.

Now they're everywhere he looks, from the garish to the outright outrageous. Slogans that would surely be banned at any other time of the year are looked upon gleefully now. Women titter as the strut about in jumpers with strategically placed baubles, and men snicker over Santa and his three hoes. Sex sells at any time of the year.

He'd rather avoid the whole spectacle but then he would have to face Daenerys' wrath, and that's _definitely _something he'd rather avoid. So he dons the jumper—the least garish one he could find, and still bearing an unflattering Christmas tree—and heads in to work.

The whole office pops with colour. Jumpers of all shapes and sizes assault his eyes, from one that plays _Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer _whenever said reindeer's nose is pressed, to ones that flash with lights intermittently. Tyrion, of course, lowers the whole tone of the day with his.

_I may be a small elf but I'm a big help! _it proclaims, along with a crude knitted elf.

He drops his donation into the bucket next to Irri on his way to his own office. That's something he can't complain about. The money goes to a good cause, and Daenerys is so passionate about helping those less fortunate. He'd pledged to help her do that in any way possible, and if that means wearing a stupid jumper for a day, so be it.

It's rather amusing to see the state of some of the jumpers. Missandei and Torgo have purchased cutesy matching ones. Pod's wearing one that's covered in snowflakes. Bronn's has a unsophisticated motif about the trunk of a tree. Nothing new there—he's quite the double-act with Tyrion.

Daenerys' is adorable. Hers is woven with tiny polar bears doing various tasks, from snowball fighting to exchanging presents. She's not one usually for sweet little things. In a world dominated by men, she doesn't want to give them the slightest excuse to take her less seriously than they already do. She plays them at their own games, butting heads, refusing to back down. Her strength of character and her perseverance in the face of adversity is one of the many qualities he loves about her, and he feels all the more privileged for being the only one who has seen her blossom from the beginning.

The working day is quiet for the most part. Daenerys has organised a Christmas jumper competition for the best jumper in the office, and the votes are tallied late in the afternoon. Varys is the winner of that, and comes away with a fine bottle of Northern whiskey. Jorah can't help the petty stab of satisfaction at the look of disappointment on Daario's face. No doubt he was expecting preferential treatment because he's currently bedding Daenerys. She doesn't seem to notice, which makes it all the better.

"I think there was a bit of sexism at play," Bronn jokes as he passes with Tyrion. "Too many bloody women not understanding the hilarity of our jumpers."

"Most women don't like being treated like sex objects," says Jorah, falling in to reluctant step with them.

"You don't have any kind of sex object," Tyrion fires back, shooting him a wink. "Oh, wait, my mistake, yes you do. Have you tried it out yet?"

Bronn snorts, shaking his head. "I do feel sorry for you, Mormont, I'm not gonna lie. Find a bird to shag and get Tyrion to shut up. It'll put us all out of our misery."

"Mormont likes dragons, not birds," Tyrion sniggers. "Unfortunately, he's not built for dragon riding. And dragons like meat they can play with first, not old gristle."

Jorah bites his tongue. He'd quite like to give Tyrion another punch in the face, but it's best not to cause too much of a scene. The less that gets back to Daenerys, the better. He doesn't want her to hear about him brawling like some youth, and especially not over some ridiculous blows to his pride. He'll not convince her that he's over her if he bristles every single time someone teases him over his unrequited love.

"Sod off," he grumbles instead.

Tyrion laughs. "Well, we've got work to do. We'll leave you with your sore head."

Jorah glowers at his back.

The dwarf's comments do little to put him in a good mood, and he goes through the afternoon rather listlessly, performing his duties on autopilot. Barristan shoots him several curious looks, but he's old enough not to ask any stupid questions, choosing instead to smooth over any difficult topic. The two of them don't always see eye to eye, but Jorah is appreciative of his steadiness on days like this.

He's grateful for the end of the day. He can see a takeaway and a whiskey in his future, just a little bit of something to take the edge off. The last thing he wants echoing in his mind all night is Tyrion's ruthless assessment, no matter how true it is.

"Knock knock."

Jorah jumps, instinctively reaching for the nearest thing which could be used as a weapon.

Daenerys smirks at him.

"I think that's the first time I've ever managed to sneak up on you," she says. "You're usually much more vigilant than that. Something troubling you?"

"No," he says. "I was just lost in thought, that's all."

"They look to be very morose thoughts. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No," he says quickly, abruptly, hoping that she gets the message that it's a subject best left alone. "But I thank you for your concern nevertheless, Khaleesi."

She regards him for a moment, then shrugs, venturing further into the room. "Well, if you ever want to talk about it, you know I'm here to listen. I've got pretty good at it, actually. All of these meetings must have rubbed off on me somewhere along the way."

"Gods know they needed to," he says, attempting to inject some levity into the situation. She sticks her tongue out at him, hitching herself onto his desk in one seamless motion. He tries not to follow the planes of her body as she gets herself comfortable, her shapely thighs moulding to the wood.

"All right, Grinch," she says. "No need to take it out on me. I know you're just jealous."

His heart lurches unpleasantly in his chest, as if he's just missed his footing on the stairs. "What?"

"The Christmas jumper competition. You're disappointed you didn't win the bottle of whiskey. I know you are."

He relaxes slightly, rolling his eyes. "Yes, devastated. I can't believe I lost to Varys and his penguins."

She leans in conspiratorially. "It's the women's votes that did it. We say what we do, but deep down we all like soft things like cuddly little penguins. Edginess only cuts it for so long."

He wonders how long that gives her relationship with Daario.

"Well, I think he was a worthy winner," he says. "Might damage my masculine image to say so, but hey. But I like yours too. Very cute."

"I thought you might have chosen a jumper like mine," she says, swinging her legs slightly as she leans back on his desk.

He snorts. "I don't think cutesy suits me, somehow. I'm pricklier, like a Christmas tree. So I think I made the perfect choice to reflect my personality."

"But you _are _a bear," she argues.

"What?"

She gestures to her jumper. "You're a man of the north. A Bear Islander. Your coat of arms is a bear."

"Ah," he says. In truth, he sometimes forgets about that, despite the tattoo on his bicep. The tattoo that's nearly always hidden beneath layers and layers of clothing. His eyes glaze over it most of the time. Mostly because he left his home on Bear Island in disgrace. His people are hardy and unsentimental and do not forgive easily. It hurts too much to remember, and so he buries his origins deep in his psyche. A bear no longer, just the fur rug fashioned from its corpse, a mockery of its former glory. "Well, in that case, you should be wearing something dragonesque."

Daenerys laughs. "Dragonesque? Since when have dragons ever had anything to do with Christmas?"

"You can get most anything these days. I'm sure there's a shop somewhere in the world which sells a Christmas dragon. Maybe from that place where you got the little dragon bauble."

"I doubt it. That's only popular this year because of the John Lewis advert. Everyone I know wants an Edgar the Excitable Dragon."

"No jumpers featuring Edgar, then?"

"Unfortunately not. But I'm not too bothered. I like this jumper well enough. It reminds me of my own bear."

Jorah swallows roughly. "Well, that's a nice compliment."

"I wasn't talking about you," she says, straight-faced, then laughs when he reddens, bumping her shoulder against his affectionately. "Idiot. Of course I was. I don't know any other bears. Nor do I want to."

"And you're the one true dragon, no matter what others might say," he says softly.

She laughs humourlessly. "I wish everyone saw it that way."

"More people do than don't."

"But the minority is very vocal in letting me know what they want. They think Jon would be better than me, that he'd be a better leader, that he'd inspire more devotion." She mulls it over for a few seconds. "He _must _be very capable, when he has nearly all of the north eating out of his hand."

"I'm sure he is," Jorah concedes. He knows little about Daenerys' nephew, but he's heard on the grapevine that his father thinks very highly of him, almost looks upon him like a son.

_The son he always wanted_, he thinks, a touch bitterly. He understands her feelings because he resents Jon a little bit too, for being the amalgamation of everything he cannot be.

"Would you worship him like the other northerners, if you still lived there?" she wonders aloud.

"I don't know," he tells her honestly. "We're never going to know." The circumstances of his life meant that his path entwined with the dragon's, not the white wolf's. "But I don't think so."

She smirks, a twisted thing that does not belie the obvious elation she feels inside. "Now you're just trying to make me feel better."

"I don't think so. I don't think there's anyone in the whole world I could respect more than you." Respect more than her, love more than her, worship more than her. He'd kneel before her altar and send up words of thanks and gratitude every day if he could.

She snorts, a disbelieving sound. "We're not so dissimilar, Jon and I. You would probably have been as enchanted as the rest of your family."

It's a little bit of a dig, as she is wont to do when she is frustrated, lashing out at those around her who care for her and will bear it anyway.

"I don't think so," he repeats.

"What makes you so sure?"

"He had a tough upbringing, but he didn't have _your _upbringing. He's not faced the horrors you've faced, and he couldn't even begin to fathom what you've had to bear. I don't think he would have had the strength of character to survive. What's the worst he's had to go through? He felt on the outskirts of his family. The man he thought was his father was actually his uncle. Yeah, it's a bit of a head spinner, but he still had a family. He still had love. They kept him safe and clothed and cared for. You…you went through a thousand things he's never experienced, and you've come out the other side all the stronger for it. I wish you could have been spared all of that, I truly do, but it never broke you. Fractured you, maybe, but never broke you. I have so much admiration for you for that."

He bites his tongue then, to stop himself from going any further, to prevent himself spilling his heart anew, to stop him from reaching his hand into his chest and tearing his beating hard from the safe cage of his ribs, holding it pulsing in his palm for her to accept as her own. It had disastrous consequences last time. He has no wish to repeat those.

If Daenerys notices that he's teetering towards dangerous territory she makes no mention of it, her eyes faraway and misty, soft with an affection he rarely sees.

"I think I only survived it because I had you," she confesses. "Especially at the beginning. I'd never felt so alone in my life. It was a whole life I'd never seen myself being involved in, and I had no one I could trust. And then I met you and things became easier to bear. I had a reason to smile." She reaches across and squeezes his forearm. "Truly, Jorah, I don't think I can ever tell you how much that meant to me."

"I'll always be here for you. I hope you know that. No matter what."

She squeezes him again, and for a moment he think she might lean in towards him, but she doesn't, she doesn't, and oh, how his heart aches. "I know that. I do. It gives me more confidence than you realise."

His lungs filter thinly with oxygen; it's difficult to draw breath. He can smell the scent of her hair and the waft of her perfume, clinging seductively to his nostrils. She looks at him from beneath her lashes, her violet eyes bright and warm. She's beautiful. So beautiful.

"You should get going," he says hoarsely. "It's getting late."

The moment is broken; whatever spell might have been falling between them lifts once more. Daenerys blinks, shaking her head.

"You're right," she says ruefully. "I should. Thank you for listening to my whining."

"No thanks necessary. And you weren't whining. We all have our moments of doubt. I'm just glad you felt comfortable enough to let me see them."

"I always feel comfortable with you," she tells him. "You understand me better than anyone else. I don't know. It's strange. Maybe it's because you've been with me from the start. Maybe it's greater than the both of us and we can't begin to fathom it. Maybe that's all we need to know and things will progress naturally from there."

He has no idea what she's talking about, so decides not to say anything at all. She weighs him up for a moment longer before shaking her head and turning away. He busies himself with straightening his desk so he doesn't have to watch her leave and feel that ache all over again.

"Jorah?" she says at the door.

He can't help it. He looks up. "Yes?"

She studies him, head tilted slightly, violet eyes hooded, and he feels almost as if she's staring right through his very soul, prodding at all of the secrets he has deep inside.

"I know I'm the last dragon, but it's good to know that I'm not completely alone. I have you," she says at last.

He flounders for a moment, unsure of what to say, unsure of _how _he should respond. She's never this open with him, closing her heart and mind off to him at every turn, reminding him of his place as friend and advisor, a role he will take time and time again as long as it means he gets to be in her glorious presence.

In the end, all he says is, "Goodnight, Daenerys." His heart is surely imagining the flash of disappointment across her features.

"Goodnight," she murmurs, and is gone.

But she leaves behind an idea that formulates in his mind.

* * *

It takes a few more days for him to be able to put it into action. The postal service can always be relied upon to be slow, especially in bad weather.

When it does arrive, he wraps it—badly—in some spare paper he has and tucks it inside his coat. The less people that see it, the better, and the _last _person he wants to catch wind of this is Tyrion. Or Daario. Tyrion would spread it round the office like wildfire, and he wouldn't put it past Daario slitting his throat in the night. The shit killing the old man. It has a rather inevitable ring to it.

He gets to the office earlier than usual so he can slip upstairs undetected. He plans to leave it under her desk for her to discover later, preferably when she's alone.

The gods have other ideas.

Daenerys is already sitting at her desk, chewing the end of her pen as she frowns down at the document in front of her.

"Khaleesi," he says in surprise. "What are you doing here so early?"

"I could ask the same of you," she says. "Your shift isn't due to start for another couple of hours."

"Your day isn't supposed to start until then, ether," he reminds her.

"I couldn't sleep."

"I had something I needed to bring in."

At her questioning look he delves into his coat, withdrawing the roughly wrapped package. Taking a breath to steel himself, he moves forward, placing it down on her desk. She arches an eyebrow.

"What's this?" she asks.

"Open it and see," he says. "You don't have to do it now. Wait until I've gone if you like."

"I'm too impatient for that." Her hands are already reaching or the package, eyes alive with curiosity. He takes a step back, pretending to be very interested in the dragon plant she has on her windowsill, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he leans forward to inspect the fine leaves.

She gasps.

"Jorah…" Her voice is soft. Reverent. Overjoyed. "You shouldn't have."

He shrugs, still not turning from the window. "I wanted to."

"It's beautiful. Thank you so much."

"I thought that you needed a reminder of who you are. Of who you'll always be, no matter what the rest of the world tries to tell you. And I know how much you love this time of the year. I thought it was fitting that it should include that too."

"You're the best."

"It's nothing."

"No, it's not nothing. I am so lucky…"

Her voice tails off, and he chances a glance at her. She's holding the jumper in her hands as if she's never held anything more precious in her entire life, and her eyes swim with emotion.

"Gods, I don't want to make you cry," he says, alarmed.

She sniffs, giggling. "Happy tears. I've not had many of those in my life. Thank you, Jorah. I mean it. No one else has ever given me such beautiful gifts before. It's like you know exactly what I need. First with the books when we first met, and now with this…"

"I'm glad you like it," he says.

"I do. I really do." She handles as if it's made of gold, then pulls it over the business-like shirt she's wearing. "There," she declares. "That's better. Now I'll have the reminder with me all day."

"I'm sorry I couldn't get one more Christmassy."

"Don't be. I didn't expect you to. Dragons aren't very festive, are they?"

He chuckles. "Well, I suppose that's the wonder of the Internet. If there's something you want, it usually exists out there somewhere. Now, I'll leave you to it. I've got some things to get done before the others get in."

She nods and he turns away, feeling lighter now that he's got this out of the way and it hasn't backfired on him.

When he'd first seen the jumper online, jet black with a blood-red dragon and white snowflakes, he'd known that it was the only one he could possibly purchase for her. It was Daenerys to a tee, the epitome of the Targaryen heritage. She is not a bear, she's a dragon, and she deserves the attire to showcase that.

"Wait."

He pauses at the threshold, turning back around with a raised eyebrow. "Khaleesi?"

She toys with the cuff of her sleeve for a moment before taking a decisive step forward. Then another. And another.

Right into his personal space.

His mind fuzzes. She cranes her head back to look at him, violet eyes piercing.

She stretches up on her tiptoes.

Presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He forgets how to breathe.

She lingers there, not moving. He remains stock-still. Afraid. Afraid of breaking whatever spell has been cast between them. Frozen in stone, like statues at Pompeii, the tragic image of lovers spanning centuries.

Distantly, he hears the sound of a door opening.

Daenerys moves away at once, swift and smooth, donning her professional mask once more.

"Thanks again, Jorah," she says, all formality, as if she's meeting him at a conference.

"You're welcome" he manages, and fumbles his way out the door, leaving her and the fantasy behind.

As Jorah dazedly passes Tyrion, who casts him a suspicious look, he can't help but think _he's _the one who's had the greatest gift of all bestowed upon him.

* * *

"_You can't go through the festive period without watching a Christmas film. At this point it's practically written into the laws of the land. Everyone has a favourite. One of the classics. _It's a Wonderful Life. Home Alone. Love Actually. _I'm not sure _Frozen _counts as a Christmas film, but I suppose I can see your point. Yes, it's got snow and ice. That's about it's only relevance. Okay, okay, you like it best. Fine. I'll count it, but only for you. What's my favourite Christmas film? Hmm, that's a tough one. Maybe that one from ten years ago, _Last Christmas_, now that it has better memories attached…"_

* * *

The advertisements have been all over town, the leading actress and actor interviewed on every station available.

There's a new Christmas film in town. Critics are calling it the feel-good film of the decade.

Jorah doubts it, somehow. Silly, soppy stuff, no doubt. He doesn't put much stock in romance, and romantic films centred around the holiday period are surely going to be even more unbearable. He's not taken too much of an interest in the whole media frenzy, although he does think the lead actress, a young woman from a hit fantasy drama that went off the rails, is exceedingly pretty.

Not that she holds a candle to Daenerys.

She'd asked him if he wanted to go and see it the previous week, but he'd flat-out refused her this time. If there was one thing it was sure to do, it was to sour his mood further at a time of the year he already dislikes. He's not watched a Christmas love story since Lynesse left. They'd watched _Love Actually _mere days before she'd walked out of his life for good, and he's never quite got over that.

Daenerys had accepted his response, but not without a look of reproach.

He'll have to find a way to make it up to her. Perhaps with a mug of hot chocolate and an offer to watch her favourite film of all time. If he can get up the courage to do so. Because that would imply watching it together at one of their homes, and he isn't sure she'll take kindly to that.

On this particular day he trudges in to work to find Daario already here. That's something he could do without. The younger man is sitting behind his desk, leaning back on his chair on two legs, feet up on the desk, looking casually rumpled as if he's just got out of bed. He probably has. Which Jorah would rather not think about.

"Morning," Daario says cheerfully, ruffling his already messy hair.

Jorah grunts in what he hopes is a passable acknowledgement. "You're here early."

"I am. I'm leaving an hour early today, so I figured I'd be a good boy and make up the time before."

"Right," says Jorah uninterestedly. He shrugs out of his outer layers and hangs them up. "Are you going to get out of my way?"

"Charming as ever," says Daario, but stands anyway. Jorah takes his place, pulling the file he abandoned last night out of one of his drawers. Infuriatingly, he's lingering there, as if he wants Jorah to say something. Well, he won't give him the satisfaction. He pretends to be perusing something on the page until Daario sighs dramatically.

"Aren't you going to ask where I'm going?" he says.

"That would imply that I care about what you do in your spare time. I don't."

"Ouch. Well, I think you'll be interested when I tell you."

"What part of 'I don't care' don't you understand?"

Daario ignores him, bringing something out of his pocket and waving it in his face. Jorah wrinkles his nose.

"What in seven hells is this?"

"Cinema tickets. Specifically, cinema tickets for the hottest Christmas film going."

"I didn't think it was your style," says Jorah, returning his faux-attention to what he was looking at before. He catches Daario's grin out of the corner of his eye.

"It's not. It is, however, our maiden fair's 'thing'."

_That _catches his attention. "What?"

Daario smirks triumphantly. "Two tickets. One for me, and one for Daenerys. We're going together tonight. She's lucky that she's got someone like me willing to go with her, and _I'm _hoping to get lucky too, if you catch my drift." He gives a wink.

Jorah clamps his mouth closed. He catches the drift, all too well.

"Hey, don't look so glum. I treat her well. Bring her flowers. Make her laugh. Give her amazing sex. She's well cared for. You should be glad of that. I'm doing what you can't."

He squeezes his hands into fists beneath the line of the desk, fingernails cutting into his palms. He'd like nothing more than to shove those stupid tickets into Daario's smug mouth. He doesn't want to hear this. The little shit knows it. Knows how it pushes his buttons, knows the agony it causes, being in love with Daenerys and watching her with other men.

"I feel sorry for you, actually," Daario says. "You're boring, but you're not terrible. If you were about fifteen years younger I might even see you as a rival. But we both know you couldn't keep up with her. That's why she's better off with me. And you know you're very dear to her, Ser Friendzone." He mock salutes, as if he's commending a weary battle commander, always there ready to take the next order no matter what it might be.

"I don't want your pity," Jorah growls instead, because he doesn't, and it stings more than he can say.

Daario shrugs. "Doesn't really matter either way, does it? Daenerys had a choice and she chose. Have a good day, Mormont."

He has the audacity to clap him on the shoulders as he passes, humming to himself, that cocky grin firmly in place. Jorah's mood has just plummeted several levels. And he'd been feeling so positive on the way in.

Catching glimpses of Daario throughout the day does little to improve his mood. In his mind's eye he fast-forwards to the evening's events, the two of them sitting cosy in the cinema, sharing popcorn, sharing laughter, sharing the walk home, sharing a kiss on the doorstoop, sharing knowing smiles at her invitation for a nightcap, sharing a bed. Sharing herself in the way that she would never share with him. Her friendship, her affection, her secrets, he had all of that, but not her love, never her love, never her heart, not the full of it.

At four he sees Daario waiting by the front desk, trading flirty banter with Irri, before Daenerys appears. At the sight of her Daario drops into a low sweeping bow, says something that makes her laugh and roll her eyes. He offers her his arm like he's a knight from the tales of old and not a roguish vagabond stealing what should never have been his; she doesn't take it, teasing him, making him hurry after her.

They disappear from sight, taking Jorah's hope with them.

* * *

"_Once all that's been done before Christmas Eve, what is there left to do? That's right. Wait for Santa to come. Snuggle in bed with your loved ones and sleep those hours away. He won't come if he knows you're awake. Yes, that's what we do. We hold each other very, very close and wait for the morning to come. Yes, all right, no need to tease. You know that holding you in my arms is one of my favourite things in the whole world. I'm not ashamed of it. I've adored it from that very first moment, and I will never take it for granted…"_

* * *

On the twenty-first of December, Daenerys drops a bombshell on him.

"I need you to take a trip with me," she informs him.

"A trip? What do you mean?"

"I've got a meeting in the north on Christmas Eve. I can't afford to miss it, and I need someone to come with me."

"Why me? I'm hardly the right person for that. You'd be better off taking Tyrion."

"I can't sit through an entire round trip with no one but Tyrion for company. I might actually throw him out of the plane. You know he doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut."

"Then Missandei."

"Missandei is spending Christmas with Torgo. And most of the people who work with us have families of their own. I don't want to take that special family time away from them so close to Christmas. It's not fair."

"Oh, charming. So it's okay for me to be pulled away from my Christmas?"

She arches a challenging eyebrow at him. "Why, did you have plans to spend with your loved ones?"

Cheap blow. She knows he hasn't seen his father in years, not since he fled from the north. He's spent most of the years since by her side, through the good and the bad.

"What about taking Daario with you?" he shoots back, more spitefully than he should have. "I'm sure the two of you would have a much better time together than we would."

"I don't want to take Daario with me. He doesn't take anything seriously, and I need someone who will." She scowls at him, folding her arms across her chest. "What's got into you?"

"What do you mean, what's got into me?"

"You've been acting weird for days, going around like a bear with a sore head. Has something happened?"

"Why should something have happened?" he says grumpily.

"Something must have. You're never like this for so long."

"Like what?"

"So moody. Like the world's done something to piss you off."

Not the world. Just her. And not pissed off. Just hollow at the thought of her going to the cinema with Daario, getting her head filled with romantic notions of love at Christmas.

Pissed off with _himself_ for being bloody stupid enough to turn down her offer. It could have been him with her, sitting in the intimate dark by her side, watching romance unfurl between two friends. And he knows it would have made no difference because of the nature of the bond they have, but…

_It could have been him._

"Forget about it," he says. "It's not important."

She narrows her eyes at him. A challenge. "Well, whatever. But you'd better start cheering up. And you'd better start packing. You're coming with me and that's that."

"I don't think it's a good idea," he tries. "I haven't set foot in the north for years."

"We're not going to Bear Island, Jorah. We're off to Winterfell. I'll need someone there I can sound off to about Sansa Stark. I can't count on Jon to back me up. I need a good ally on side. There's no one I trust more than you."

Yes, he's her most trusted friend, the one she bares her soul to but not her heart. Her heart is as unobtainable as that of a queen.

And it doesn't matter. None of it does. Because he's still in love with her and he'll do whatever she asks of him.

"Fine," he relents.

Her expression melts into a beaming grin. "Good. Our flights are booked for the early hours of the twenty-fourth, and we're to fly back at about eight in the evening. We'll be back early for Christmas Day so I'll still be there for the soup kitchen."

It's the perfect scene, really, he thinks. Before the soup kitchen, she can fly into Daario's open arms and they'll share a kiss with the snow swirling gently around them. Perhaps the word love will even pass their lips. Christmas has that kind of power over people.

"Dress warmly," he tells her grimly. "The north is inhospitable to outsiders."

"Don't I know it," she murmurs.

* * *

The stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve finds Jorah standing outside in the freezing cold on the empty street, waiting for the taxi to arrive. He's got his bag slung over his shoulder, the battered little carryall which has served him well for many years. It's not as if he needs it, but experience has told him never to be without it. He's packing his battered copy of _Songs and Histories of the Seven Kingdoms_, a fascinating read about Westeros' bloody history, a notepad and pen in case it's required, and his phone. The flight is a relatively short one, just a couple of hours, but he hates the thought of having nothing to do.

He's grateful for the taxi's headlights sweeping onto the street ten minutes later because he's already half-frozen and shivering in the frigid temperatures. He slides into the back, sighing as the warmth of the car washes over him. They make their way to pick up Daenerys. She's got a little case with her, and he gets out of the car to help her stow it in the boot. Her teeth chatter as she slides into the backseat after him, still a little puffy-eyed.

The journey through the airport is uneventful, and so is their flight. Jorah spends most of it dozing, and awakens as they're descending into Torrhen's Square to find Daenerys still fast asleep beside him, face smooth and innocent, chin dropped onto her chest. He doesn't have the heart to wake her, but she does so herself as the wheels touch down with a bump.

It's a hectic rush after that. The north is like a whole other world, hidden under seven feet of snow and more, as dark and grim as its people. Even dressed in his warmest furs Jorah feels the keen bite of the cold in his joints, and the frost settles in his beard. It's not a hospitable place, never has been. Hard places breed hard people. His father is certainly one. Gruff, no-nonsense. Jorah likes to think that one day he'll be able to look his father in the eyes again, but truthfully he doesn't know if that will ever be a possibility. He did some unforgivable things, and his father isn't the kind of man who forgets easily. It doesn't help that years have passed since their last interaction. They don't even send each other Christmas cards. He doesn't know if he'll ever have the courage to face those demons, no matter what time of the year it is.

Daenerys' meeting is with Sansa Stark in her own domain of Winterfell. A swanky five-star hotel in the most popular part of the north, it's surrounded by vast sloping mountains and self-contained cabins. It's the kind of place people love to come skiing, taking on the most dangerous slopes they can find whilst living in the luxury Winterfell has to offer.

It's not a place Daenerys has much love for, he knows that. She's never lived in these tough frozen climes, acclimatised instead to the heat of Essos and the balms of King's Landing. Her distaste is all the more because this is Sansa's place, and the two young women are as different as night and day, never seeing eye to eye. Perhaps he's biased, but Jorah's pretty sure that Sansa would argue that the sky was green just to get under Daenerys' skin.

"Well, wish me luck," Daenerys sighs when they arrive at the luxurious hotel. "These meetings are always unproductive, but I have to show willing. Jon will only sulk at me otherwise."

Jorah hides his smile. She's just as stubborn as the Stark girl is, even if she doesn't want to admit it.

"Good luck," is all he says. "I'll wait for you in the lobby, okay?"

She nods and they part ways. Jorah settles himself down in one of the comfortable leather armchairs near the roaring fire, pulling out the battered paperback. He orders a drink of strong coffee from one of the waiters meandering about, and settles down to enjoy the peace.

He startles later, taking a few seconds to adjust to his surroundings; Daenerys is shaking his shoulder. He's slumped forward a little in his chair and he springs up now, almost clashing heads with her in his haste.

"What happened?" he asks frantically.

She only laughs. "You must have fallen asleep."

"Gods. How embarrassing. I must have looked a right pillock."

"You looked rather handsome," she reassures him. "Very sweet. I'm sure you were getting a fair few looks from the ladies."

He rolls his eyes at her teasing, stuffing his book back into his bag. "How'd the meeting go?"

"Not very well. The queen in the north didn't want to back down on anything."

"And what about you?"

She scowls at him, and he knows he's caught her out. Smirking, he swipes up his backpack and swings it over his shoulder. "Ready to head back to the airport, then? We could grab a drink before the flight, drink in commiseration to another stalemate."

"Yeah, about that…"

"What's wrong?" he prods, slightly alarmed at the expression on her face.

She shifts her weight, wincing. "We've been forced into an impromptu change of plans. I was checking our flight online to see if it was going to be delayed, and it's been cancelled completely."

"_What?_"

"The weather's terrible out there," she explains. "Loads of them have been cancelled. It's not safe to fly in these conditions."

Automatically, he turns towards the window. True enough, the snow swirls around in a frenzy, so thick it's impossible to see beyond the blanket of white. He swears. "I should have been watching for this."

"And what would you have done? Interrupted the meeting to whisk me back to the airport? Demand that they put on a flight anyway and risk all of their lives? You can't control the elements, Jorah."

"Now what are we going to do!?"

"Stay here," says Daenerys. "I've spoken to Sansa. She's grudgingly given us use of a room. I think she wanted to see me beg for it, but Jon stepped in. Not that I _would _have begged for it. I would've slept outside first."

There's little doubt that that's exactly what she would have done. He's so caught up in the image of a stubborn Daenerys crouching in the snow in her winter clothes that it takes his brain a few seconds to catch up with the rest of her words. But he notes the use of the singular and whips around, eyes widening. "Wait…did you say the use of _a _room?"

"I did."

"As in…_one _room?"

"That's usually what the singular means, yes."

He splutters, heat rising to his cheeks. "That's ridiculous. We can't possibly share a room."

"We're going to have to. Sansa was most gleeful letting me know that she's only got one spare room to offer us, and that's only because it's going to be renovated in the New Year to fit in with the rest of the hotel. We take it or we leave it. Christmas is one of the busiest times of the year for Winterfell, and it's completely booked up.

"_I'll _have a word with Sansa."

"I don't think she'll listen to you any more than she listens to me. You have history with her father. What is it they say? The north remembers? You more than anyone should be aware of that. Let's just take it and not give her the satisfaction of thinking that she's got to us."

But she _has _got to him. Gods, the thought of spending the evening in the same bedroom as Daenerys is absolutely mortifying. He doesn't have a change of clothes with him, or any toiletries, or a dressing gown…How is Daenerys as calm about it as she is?

But she's as serene as the surface of a lake on Bear Island, not showing the slightest hint of embarrassment. "I've got the key. Let's go and get something to eat from the restaurant and then we can head up there. How's that sound?"

Not good. How's he supposed to sit across from her and eat a meal as if there's nothing out of the ordinary going on?

But what choice does he have?

Setting his jaw, he follows her out of the lobby. They find a table in the corner of the restaurant and Daenerys stows her things beneath the table.

"Let's grab something to eat, then," she says.

"You go first. I'll watch the table and then go after you."

She shakes her head but goes anyway. As soon as she's gone Jorah whips out his phone, scrolling through flight information until he finds what he's looking for. Yes, there it is, in black and white. All flights outbound are grounded. The advice urges people to check the weather in the morning and make a sensible decision then whether it's safe to make the journey to the airport, as they can't guarantee that the weather will have abated enough for flights to resume.

Defeated, Jorah slides his phone back into his pocket. It's not as if he doubted the authenticity of Daenerys' words—why would she lie about something like that?—but seeing it with his own eyes has made the reality of the situation set in.

This is going to be the worst night he's ever had.

When Daenerys returns with her plate piled high, he rises to get his own. The food looks delicious, no less than he'd expect from Sansa Stark's five star establishment, but nothing tempts him. The anxiety swirls around inside him, making him feel sick.

In the end he grabs a small spoonful of pasta, but even then he picks his way through it, unable to manage more than a couple of mouthfuls. Daenerys, by contrast, has wolfed her way through her own servings and eyes him critically.

"You're going to be starving later if you don't eat more than that," she says.

"I'll be fine," he mutters. He rather doubts he'll ever be hungry again.

Daenerys rolls her eyes, but doesn't press further.

After they've finished eating, they grab their things and stand. Daenerys slides out the key to their lone room and hands it over to him.

"We're on the fourth floor," she says. "Follow me."

And so he does, for he has no other choice. His heart pounds harder with every step they take.

At last, they reach the right floor and Daenerys leads him down to the last room on the corridor. He fits the key in the lock and pushes open the door. Daenerys steps in ahead of him and fumbles for the light switch. It floods with flickering light.

Jorah swears under his breath. Basic is the word for this place. One bed in the centre of the room. A dusty bureau sequestered against the wall. A door leading off to a cramped bathroom. A chair by the window. It's draughty and cold and not at all what a place in the north should be. No wonder Sansa isn't letting this room out until it's had a makeover.

Daenerys heaves a sigh of her own, venturing further into the room. "Well, it's far from perfect but it'll have to do us for the night. We'll just have to pray to the gods that the weather clears enough for us to get a flight home tomorrow."

He isn't holding his breath. He's never put too much stock in the gods. They've served him ill too many times in the past.

He follows her over the threshold, kicking the door shut with his heel and dropping their bags to the floor with a dull thud. Now that he's shut out the outside world he feels more nervous than ever. It's been a very long time since they were last alone together. Truly alone, in a tiny space like this. It would have been in Essos, when it was the two of them against the rest of world.

"Come in," Daenerys says briskly, flopping down on the bed. She doesn't seem to be feeling any of this strange energy between them, lounging like a dragon under the sun.

He ventures further in, keeping as wide a berth of the bed as he can to reach the rickety chair. It creaks under his weight. Gods, that's all he needs, to end up in an undignified heap on the floor.

She tuts. "What are you doing over there?"

"It's comfortable."

"Yeah, about as comfortable as that fabled Iron Throne from centuries past. Come and sit on the bed."

"I'm fine here."

She throws her hands up in exasperation. "Fine. Have it your way. I'm going to shower and get comfortable."

He doesn't quite trust himself to answer. She wriggles off the bed, snatches up her case, and heads into the bathroom. The door closes behind her. He hears the dull thud of clothing hitting the floor, then the susurrus gush of water. He squeezes his eyes closed. That's the last thing he needs, the image of a naked Daenerys under the spray.

To try to distract his treacherous mind from the direction it wants to wander in, Jorah pushes himself to his feet and presses his forehead against the chilled windowpane, straining his eyes through the darkness. Eddies of bone white snow swirl, blocking out any view he might have had. Will it have cleared up for the morning? He has no idea. But the thought of being trapped here with Daenerys fills him with dread. She's probably wishing she'd brought Daario along with her after all. They'd most likely have a very diverting time together.

By the time Daenerys emerges from the bathroom, wrapped up in fluffy pyjamas, he's back in the chair as if he'd not moved at all.

Still, nothing could possibly work as a defence against the sight of her. Even clad in something as ridiculous as those pyjamas, almost as thick as a bear's fur and decorated in little dragons, she's still the most beautiful sight he's ever seen. The fact that she appears completely unselfconscious about it all only makes her more so. He swallows hard against the sudden well of emotion in his throat, pushing himself abruptly to his feet.

"I should shower too," he says.

"Sure," Daenerys says, not looking at him; she's eyeing the bed hungrily. No doubt she'll be pretending to be asleep when he comes out. It'll suit him fine. There will be less awkwardness about sleeping arrangements. He doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable around him, and he could certainly do without having to share such a small space with her.

He grabs his own duffel bag from the floor and slings it over his shoulder.

"Back in a bit," he tells her.

He closes the door behind him with a snap, leaning his forehead against it. The bathroom is steamy from Daenerys' shower, mitheringly so. She always has the thermostat turned to the highest temperature possible. He always wonders how she can stand for it to be so hot. She just shrugs, jests that she has skin like a dragon's hide.

He cranks the temperature down significantly, then sets the shower going while he undresses, throwing the dirty clothes in a haphazard pile. There's a towel on the radiator and he grabs that, balancing it on the side as he clambers into the bathtub.

He prolongs the shower for as long as he dare, but he can't stand under here all night. Wrinkled now, he switches it off and takes as long as he can to dry off.

Now he's faced with a dilemma: what to wear. Never did it occur to him that their flight might be grounded, and so he didn't pack more than the essentials. Unfortunately, it means he hasn't brought pyjamas.

In the end, he throws on his old t-shirt and a fresh pair of boxers. He doesn't want to have to put his trousers back on, but he'll do it if he has to. It won't make for a comfortable night, but it's not going to comfortable anyway.

Taking a deep breath, he pulls open the door.

Daenerys is sitting up in the bed, with the TV screen flickering silently. She turns towards him as he steps into the room. He's glad that it's mostly dark so that she can't see him. He picks his way around the room to the chair and lowers himself into it.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Getting settled."

"You can't be serious. There's no way you can stay there."

"There's only one bed."

"So?"

The word hangs in the air between them. Jorah feels the hot blush in his cheeks.

"I don't think it's appropriate."

"Why not? You like me, don't you?"

He squeezes his eyes closed. Gods, she's being unfair. "You're a good friend. Of course I like you."

"Then what's the problem?"

How does he verbalise that? _You're a beautiful young woman, Daenerys, and it's already torture for me being in the same room as you when you look like this. To share the same bed..._

He can't say the words. He just shakes his head.

"Jorah." Daenerys' voice is firm now, the touch of steel in her tone that he's come to associate with her getting her own way; she simply bulldozes people until she gets what she wants. "You are being ridiculous. You'll have a sore back from sitting there all night, and I won't be responsible for that. We're both adults. I trust you with my life. Now get in this bed with me now."

He scowls at her, but his chest deflates for he knows he's defeated. No doubt she'll drag him there herself if he doesn't obey, and that's an embarrassment he doesn't want to have to go through. He has _some _pride left.

So, reluctantly, he pushes himself to his feet and pads across the room to the spare side of the bed. When has a double bed been so small? He can't remember ever sharing a bed with a woman and it being that tiny. Daenerys is small herself, but she seems to be taking up three quarters of the space. Gingerly, he lowers himself to the mattress and forces himself to lie down, as close to the edge as he can possibly get. If he shifts in the night he'll probably end up falling out, but he doesn't envisage he'll be getting much sleep tonight anyway.

"You're going to sleep?" she asks, sounding surprised.

"It's been a long day," he lies. "And we've probably got another long one ahead of us tomorrow. It'll be sensible to go to sleep now."

"I was watching something," she pouts.

"You can carry on. I'm not stopping you."

She heaves a sigh that implies that he's displeased her, but he can't bring himself to care tonight. He has to protect himself.

"Goodnight, Daenerys," he says with a touch if finality. "See you in the morning."

The TV continues to flicker beneath his closed lids. He tries to regulate his breathing, tries not to think that Daenerys is just feet away from him, warm and soft.

After a time, she huffs again. "Jorah, I know you're not sleeping."

He grits his teeth and says nothing, hoping she'll be deterred.

She never is. "You're stiff as a board. You can't be comfortable."

"I'm fine," he grunts.

"You're infuriating, that's what you are. Gods, just get comfortable, will you? You're making _me _nervous."

"Sorry," he mutters. "I'm just not used to this."

"Sharing a bed with a woman?" She's matter-of-fact about it, but it doesn't help.

"Something like that," he utters. It _has _been a long time. The last few times was with Lynesse, when things were already beginning to sour; he hadn't stayed the night with any of the few women he's slept with since, rising and redressing as soon as it was acceptable to do so.

"Well, I'm sure you've not forgotten how to do it. Besides, it's only _me_."

Therein lies the problem, he thinks moodily. How is he supposed to relax when the woman he loves is right there next to him, mere centimetres away?

Daenerys sighs, clicking off the TV, plunging the room into sudden darkness. It appears he's won this particular round. He feels her shifting as she tries to get comfortable. The bed creaks rhythmically, and he squeezes his eyes more tightly closed. That's all he needs.

At last, she falls silent. He dare not move, clutching a fistful of his pillow in the hand pillowed beneath his head. He listens to the steady cadence of her breathing, in and out, in and out.

* * *

He wakes with a start deep in the night. He's disorientated by the unfamiliar bed and the unfamiliar room and the unfamiliar weight pressed against him. Where in seven hells is he?

Fighting against the human urge to panic, he takes a deep breath, eyes darting around the room, to the pile of clothes abandoned on the chair, to the soft eddies of snow he can see drifting by in the chink in the thick curtains.

The weight at his back shifts, and he turns his head with great difficulty.

Daenerys is pressed against him.

It comes flooding back to him then. The cancelled flight, the single room at Winterfell, _the one bed..._

It appears that she's gravitated towards him naturally in the night. Her cheek is pressed to his bicep and long strands of her silver hair spill like a silken waterfall over his shoulder. Her slim arm drapes loosely over his waist, her hand perilously close to his groin.

At that realisation, he jerks away from her, almost tumbling out of bed and cracking his knee painfully against the bedside cabinet. He swears.

Daenerys has slumped unceremoniously to the mattress with a yelp of her own. She pushes herself up on her forearms, glancing about wildly. Her gaze lands on him.

"Gods, Jorah, what are you _doing_!?"

"What are _you _doing?" he shoots back defensively, bending down to rub at his smarting kneecap.

"I was sleeping!" she says haughtily, tossing her silver mane over her shoulder.

_Right up against me! _he wants to yell. He'd felt the soft curve of her breast along his spine, her smooth skin tangled with his...

Dangerous territory. He forces his mind away from that before his body can give him away.

"It surprised me," he mutters instead. "I didn't expect you to be so...close."

"I was cold," she complains. "It's freezing here."

She's the blood of the dragon, they often joke, soaking up all the heat she can get. It hadn't occurred to him that she'd do that _here _too, vine herself around his body and leech away the heat. The fact that she did it knowingly and not in her sleep...

"Maybe give me warning next time," he says feebly.

"I'm sorry," she allows at last. "I shouldn't have done it. Have you hurt yourself?"

"I'm fine," he says. "I've suffered worse."

"Will you come back to bed?"

He sighs. He has no real choice in the matter, but nor is he stupid enough to think he'd choose to be anywhere else if he _did _have that choice. It's not the fantasy he's always dreamed of, but it _is _a fantasy, to know what it's like to share a bed with her. Slowly, he clambers back beneath the covers. She regards him, teeth chewing at her bottom lip, the way she always does when she's contemplating something.

"So, can I huddle up with you again?" she asks.

He blinks at her, his mind abuzz. "I don't think it's such a good idea."

"Please?" Her eyes beseech him.

Heart and head war.

Heart wins. It invariably does.

"Fine."

He expects her to want what she had before. He begins half-shuffling on to his side so he can accommodate her at his back.

Her hand shoots out and catches his arm.

"Not that way," she says. There's a feverish light in her eyes.

His mouth grows dry.

This is even worse than he'd imagined.

And there's no denying her. There never is. In one fluid movement she's in his arms, one hand pressed over his heart, the other draping over his shoulder. His heart is thundering in his chest, as fast a thousand horses' hooves pounding over flat ground to their death in war, and there's no way that she can't feel it.

"Khaleesi, please," he says, not sure what he's begging for.

"Shh," she soothes, fingers caressing the back of his neck. The sensation tingles right down his spine to his groin. He tries to pull away from her, horrified that she'll realise the effect she's having on him, but her touch freezes him in place, her hand trailing fire down his chest to his abdomen, so perilously close to where he's stirring for her. She's too close to him. Her violet eyes are black in the silvered moonlight. Dark. Hungry. She is the dragon and he is her prey, a little lamb wandered too close.

He can't move as she edges herself nearer.

Can't move as she brushes the tip of her nose against his. Can't move as her hot breath ghosts his mouth. Can't move as her eyes flicker over his features, drinking him in for long, suspended moments.

Sparks to life as her mouth finds his.

Her arm tightens around his neck. Her tongue is hot and demanding, already seeking entrance.

He surges against her, his right hand moving to the back of her neck, his left to her chin, gripping it between thumb and forefinger, altering the angle of her mouth. She makes a breathy sound in the back of her throat, pressing closer.

He's drowning in her. In her scent, in the soft warmth of her mouth, in the silk of her tongue and the rasp of her teeth against his bottom lip. He's died. Or he's actually still sleeping and having yet another one of those dreams about her. That's the only explanation. This would never be happening otherwise. Any moment now reality will return and he'll wake up in his lonely bed with nothing but the hard press of his cock against his bottoms as a reminder that she was there with him once, in some capacity.

But then her hand brushes the front of his boxers, and he moans into her mouth. That's his proof. Nothing in his whole life has ever felt as good as that. Nothing. Her palm rubs up the length of him, and he swells almost painfully in those confines, arching his hips towards her like a begging dog, desperate for more.

But when her hand slips between the waistband of his boxers and the flat of his stomach, he freezes.

Comes back to his senses.

He's in bed with Daenerys, kissing her, her hands on his body, but he can't do it. He has no idea what madness has overtaken her, but she's made it plain in the past that she does not desire him in that way. He can't do this with her tonight and have her snub him tomorrow. Tell him that it was a mistake, a moment of madness away from her responsibilities, not to be repeated.

To be tossed aside, meaningless.

It would break him, and he isn't sure he'd recover. Not from that. The first heartbreak had been bad enough. At least she'd rejected him outright. She hadn't toyed with him first, let him know her intimately before shutting him out once more.

He jerks away from her, wrenching his mouth from hers.

"Stop," he pants.

Daenerys' mouth is red and swollen from the voracity of their kisses, her pupils dilated. She tries to move back in for another kiss bur he braces his hands against her forearms, keeping her at bay.

"This isn't right," he says.

"Of course it is. And you can't pretend that you don't want this."

"What about Daario?"

"What about him?" she asks, and there's no masking the irritation in her voice.

Jorah runs his hand over his beard, wondering how to word the delicate rebuttal. That as much as he wants her, wants this, he's not about to be made a fool out of. That as much as he dislikes Daario, he isn't going to make a fool out of him, either. "You and he…"

"We're what?" she says. "Come on, Jorah, out with it. I've never had trouble getting you to speak your mind before."

He stiffens at that. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" she challenges. "I always know when you approve or disapprove of something. I can feel it in the weight your eyes put on me. Sometimes it feels as if you'll always be disappointed in me no matter what I do."

"How can you say that!?" he growls. "I've stood by you when no one else did, Daenerys. I've fought for your vision, done everything in my power to protect you, championed you wherever you went. There's no one more loyal to your cause than I. And I won't have you toying with me. It's not fair."

"How am I toying with you?"

"You're sleeping with Daario! And now you're here with me…" His voice tails off. He can't bring himself to say the vulgar words, that she's with another man but is touching his cock.

He expects her to react with anger. To perhaps flounce from the room and slam the door behind her. To shoot poisoned words at him. That's the kind of thing Lynesse would have done.

But, to his utter surprise, Daenerys _laughs_.

"What's so funny?" he growls, instantly rankled. "Because I'm not seeing one humorous thing about this situation. I don't take you for a cruel person, Daenerys, but you're not being fair now."

"You're an idiot," she informs him. "And I should be insulted by the fact that you think I'm the kind of person to sleep with two people at the same time."

"But Daario—"

"Gods, stop talking about bloody Daario. I'm not sleeping with him."

He's so stunned by her words that he can't lspeak; he opens his mouth but no words will come. Images of the past few weeks flicker through his head like a rolling film; of the two of them dancing in the office together, of her ducking his offer to walk arm-in-arm with him to the cinema, the two of them kissing beneath the mistletoe…

"I don't understand," he blurts.

"Yes, I've come to realise that that's a trait that men seem to share," she deadpans. "I don't know how to make it any clearer. I'm not doing anything with him."

"You _were_."

"I was," she concedes, keeping her head high, unapologetic. "I found him attractive. I'm not going to say sorry for that. We had fun together. But I put an end to it months ago. We've not slept together since the summer."

"That's not what he's saying," says Jorah, remembering that conversation with Daario on that fateful film day all too clearly, how he had goaded him that he was giving her everything she could dream of…

She narrows her eyes. "Has it ever occurred to you that there might be a reason why for that?"

Jorah refuses to be drawn into that particular guessing game, not when his head is still spinning. "But…you still flirt with him."

"That's just the kind of relationship we have. We've _always _flirted with each other. But he knows the truth, and that's whatever desire I might once have had for him is extinguished now, and it can't be rekindled. We're done in that way. We'll stay friends because Daario's not the kind of person to hold grudges, he fancies himself too much for that, and I don't believe in severing what's a perfectly good working relationship because two consenting adults have decided to part ways. But that's all it is now. And he knows it as well as I do."

"But the cinema…"

She sighs in exasperation. "I'm beginning to think that Tyrion is right: northerners are bloody slow. It's a condition that's already afflicted my nephew, and now I can see it's in you too. If you remember, I asked _you _to come to the cinema with me, just like I asked you to come to the light switch-on and the Christmas carol concert. I didn't ask Daario. He said he'd come with me when he heard that I was going to go on my own. Missandei was busy otherwise she would have come, and I didn't see the harm in it."

"People _are _going to still think you're sleeping with him, though, if he's going around saying the things that he does."

"Literally nobody else thinks we're still sleeping together. You're the only person who's come to that conclusion. They know Daario likes to brag and make himself look good."

"How come I haven't heard anything on the grapevine, then, if it's such common knowledge?" he says, a bit more sulkily then he intended.

"Since when do you actually pay attention to anything happening in the office? You've said yourself plenty of times, the less you have to get involved, the better. Don't throw your toys out of the pram if that means that people aren't filling you in on the office gossip."

"But Torgo hasn't said I word."

She raises an eyebrow. "And you expected him to? He's riding the wave of love with Missandei right now. He hardly spares a thought for anything else. He isn't going to be thinking about that. Barristan doesn't like to get involved with the romantic side of any relationship, so he's always stayed well clear. And Daario isn't going to want to tell you himself, because he knows you're a rival."

Jorah can't stop his bitter snort at that. "Then he's deluded."

"On the contrary, he's very perceptive. He's seen where my attention has been wandering these past few months. He's no fool. So it doesn't surprise me that he tried to throw you off the scent by claiming that there was still something going on between us."

"Don't mock me, Daenerys. I don't deserve it."

"I wasn't under the impression that kissing you was mocking you. Nor any of the other things I was planning to do tonight."

He goes hot all over, but he won't allow his cock to get the better of him. It's a mistake men always make—a mistake he himself has made far too many times in the past.

"We've had this conversation before," he reminds her tersely. "You made it very clear at the time that you couldn't possibly feel the same way about me that I did about you." It had taken them a very, very long time to get back to any sort of even keel from there, and he doesn't want to risk it all again now on a mad whim she's feeling in a foreign land.

"We're allowed to change our minds," she counters. "And we're allowed to finally admit things to ourselves that we've been denying for a long time."

"I'm not understanding."

"Yes, you are. You're choosing not to acknowledge it."

He shakes his head. His mind is full, saturated with too many thoughts he can't sift through, enough of them squashed in there to drive him mad: her mouth on the corner of his in her office; her breath in his ear as she confessed her childhood secret; the sure, sharp lines of her handwriting over the word _love_; the look on her face as she helped him decorate his sparse home…

_Love._

"I didn't even realise what I was feeling at first," she continues. "I was so sure that love was different to what I felt with you. That it had to be fiery passion and danger and excitement all of the time. That was what it was like with Drogo. Any minute could have been our last. I didn't love him, not right at the start, but I started to think I did, and that love had to be modelled in that way. It never occurred to me that love could be peaceful and steady too."

"So what changed?" he whispers. "Why now?"

"I've done some growing up," she says simply. "And I started to realise that I was worth more than I was allowing myself to have. That I was allowing myself to be treated badly, that it was the only way I thought I could have love and be happy. But it wasn't. Real love, the kind of love that I've been craving my whole life, was right there in front of my face the whole time and I was just blind to the possibilities."

Her eyes meet his.

"But I'm not blind anymore."

It's as if the gods have answered all of his prayers in one go. All of his life he's been searching for love. He lost the love of his mother so many years ago, when she was cruelly ripped away too young by the gods. He lost what little gruff love his father could manage the day he ruined their family for Lynesse. He lost _her _love not long after that, to the cutting curses that he couldn't provide for her emotionally or sexually.

He fell in love with Daenerys, but in the deepest, truest part of himself, he never believed that he would have those feelings returned. He's not built for loving. Just to love. To sacrifice in the name of it, to die alone with his regrets.

But Daenerys is moving towards him again, her eyes flashing with determination. Her palm falls on his cheek, the pad of her thumb rasping against his stubble. Her body hitches up alongside his own, fitting against his like the missing piece of a puzzle, knee nocked to his hip, foot against his calf, stomach against his cock, breasts crushed to his ribcage. Instinctively, he tries to jerk away from her once more but she retains her hold on him this time, not letting him slip away from her. Her mouth lands on his chin first, then finds its way back to his; for a suspended second she hovers above him, letting him savour the anticipation.

"I love you," she breathes, and doesn't let him answer in kind, crushing her mouth against his. Teeth clash and tongues slide; she tightens her hold on him and he moans into her mouth as her body crushes up against his. There's no hiding his arousal from her, but it's clear she doesn't want that; she rubs herself against his bulge, fingers tangling in the curls at the back of his neck.

_I love you_.

The words are the most incredible thing he's ever heard in his life. Three words that hold more power than king of the Seven Kingdoms might once have. Overwhelming. A revelation. They can't possibly be true, and yet he's heard them straight from her mouth.

_I love you_.

And, gods, he loves her. So, so much. More than life itself. He would die for her if he needed to, will protect her until his last breath.

_I love you._

Things move quickly after that, and yet seem to exist within a vacuum. They're the only two people left in the universe, and nothing beyond this bed matters. Only the whisper of wool as it slides up Daenerys' stomach. Only the breathy giggle she emits as the garment gets tangled in her hair and they have to work in clumsy tandem to free her. Only the feel of her hands on him as she moves to respond in kind, pulling the shirt free and leaving his upper half exposed to the room.

He should feel self-conscious in her presence. It's been a long time since he was last naked with a woman, and Daenerys' previous lovers have been all sinewy muscle and rippling six-packs. Drogo had been built like a rugby player, and Daario has the fitness of an athlete. He is older, covered in ginger fur.

Daenerys doesn't seem to mind in the slightest. She's on him at once, hands exploring the broad expanse of his chest, mouth sliding down to tease at his neck. He breathes heavily through his nose, trying to regulate his breathing as her palm rests against his tight abdomen, fingers teasing the waistband of his boxers.

But he wants her first. He knows that if she touches him there he'll be lost to her powers, to the desire that courses through his veins like a drug. He can't allow that. Daenerys deserves to be worshipped, and he has dreamed of this moment for years. Dreamt of sliding his hand between her legs, finding her warm and wet for him. Using his fingers, his tongue, to bring her to her peak before sliding himself into the cradle between her thighs and finding his own sweet relief. And he's confident in his own abilities. He's a Bear Islander. Bear Islanders are better at everything than most. Their women wouldn't let them get away with being selfish bastards, and he can put his knowledge to good use.

So when she shifts herself lower, he places his hands on her shoulders to stop her. She glances up at him, violet eyes brimming with want.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice husky with need.

"Come here," is all he says, stroking his thumb over her cheekbone. She grins at him, acquiescing, much to his surprise, since she is usually as untameable as a dragon. Her mouth meets his readily, and he uses his body to flip them over so that she is now the one lying against the mattress and he is hovering above her, holding his weight on his side so he doesn't crush her.

"Gods, you're beautiful," he breathes, drinking her in. Her silver hair fans out on the pillow, her chest heaving with the rapid breaths she's drawing. She looks like his ex-wife in some lights, he can't deny that, but there are a hundred other differences between Daenerys and Lynesse. Her sense of humour, her steel in the face of adversity, the fact that she's never asked him for more than he can give, in whatever capacity that might be, whether it's professional or personal.

He would give it to her anyway if she asked it of him, because the thought of letting her down is inconceivable.

"You're rather handsome yourself," she returns.

He snorts. "I'm not sure there are many who would say that."

"Oh, there are, believe me. Irri fancies you. Plenty of women would have had you if you'd given them the chance." Her lips curl triumphantly. "Thankfully, you waited for me to catch up with you. You're all mine."

"All yours," he echoes dizzily. Will he ever get used to that notion? He doubts it. It's still not sinking in now, even when she's almost naked in his arms and telling him in clear, unmistakeable terms.

His thumb ghosts across the underside of her breast and down, following the lines of the inked tattoo. She shivers and arches slightly, and he takes a moment to flick his tongue over the dusky pink areola before pulling away.

"When did you get this?" he asks huskily, tracing the outline of the dragon's scaly head. It's a majestic thing, intricately detailed, spanning all the way down to the top of her left thigh. Inked in blacks and reds, it's one of the most striking things he's ever seen.

She scrunches her nose. "Years ago. Back when we were in Essos. After Viserys and Drogo. I wanted to do something for myself to give _me _a sense of identity beyond just being Drogo's woman or Viserys' meek little sister. And I remembered what you told me. That I was a dragon too, even if I didn't think it. That's always kind of stuck with me. So I decided to take it as my personal sigil."

In a way he's inspired her. Helped her to see her worth. Helped her grow into the headstrong young woman she is today. He can't take credit for any of it, but he's proud that he could have helped her in some small way. He drags his fingers down it now, right from the top of the snarling snout to the tip of the curling tail, before shifting to allow his mouth to take that same path. Daenerys gasps softly, her hand falling into his hair and tightening through the curls.

"Gods, that's so nice," she whispers, and he makes a mental note to return to it later, to explore every erogenous spot he finds in sweet detail.

But there are more pressing matters for now. He hooks his fingers into the lacy waistband of the flimsiest thong he's ever seen, and draws it down her legs with slow deliberateness, unable to hide his own smirk of triumph at the sound that rattles through her chest. The thong slides down over her knees and she helps him to kick it off; it falls somewhere off the edge of the bed, forgotten.

Now she's completely exposed to his gaze, and he sucks in his own breath, his temperature rising several degrees and his cock pulsing in response to the sight before him.

There are no old gods, or new gods, drowned gods or lords of light. There is only one goddess, and she's here with him. He shuffles further down the bed, hooking her knees over his shoulders, taking a moment to breathe in the heady scent of her, tracing his eyes along the lines of her. Lips blushed pink, ripe as peaches, dewed like petals in the early morning sun. Wet for him. Only for him.

Her fingers tightens in his hair, and he feels her pushing his head down to her. A queenly command, and one a humble servant cannot disobey.

His tongue works eagerly over her sopping flesh, sometimes long, broad strokes, other times quick little flicks against her clit, then deep kisses as if it's her mouth. Her thighs tighten around his ears, her moans ringing louder. He grinds his cock into the mattress for some sweet relief of his own, but he doesn't stray from his task. This is about her. It's always been about her. He slips his hand between them, finds her folds, teases her wetness with his fingers until they're slick with her arousal. She bucks helplessly, and he smiles around her clit as he slips his fingers inside, gently crooking them and setting up a pace for her to follow along to.

It doesn't take long after that for her to reach her peak, fingers tightening to an almost painful degree in his hair, thighs squeezing tight around his ears so he hears nothing but the thundering of his own blood. He keeps at her, soft little licks to help her over the crest, and she wilts against the mattress in the aftermath, boneless and panting for breath. He presses his cheek to her stomach and she giggles breathlessly, the scratch of his beard evidently tickling her.

"Wow," she says. "You know what you're doing, I'll give you that."

He swells at the compliment, pressing a kiss to her soft skin. "I'm a bear. Bears enjoy honey, don't they?"

She collapses into another peal of laughter, but that soon melts away when her eyes meet his. The air between them thickens again, the anticipation almost stifling. Jorah wets his suddenly dry mouth, and she uses the anchorage on his hair to bring him back up to her eager mouth. He kisses her thoroughly, allowing her to slip out from underneath him, and she settles herself over his thighs, the warm dampness of her mound making his cock twitch.

"My turn now," she purrs, and he no further coherent thoughts after that.

* * *

Afterwards, once Jorah has taken the time to dispose of the condom—thank the _gods _Daenerys was planning ahead—they lie tangled together, Daenerys with her head pressed over his heart and her leg thrown over his, her arm slung across his abdomen. He feathers kisses into her hair, breathing in the musk of sweat and sex on her skin. She shifts against him, her head a heavy weight. It's yet another new thing to discover about her; that she grows lethargic and sleepy in the immediate aftermath of lovemaking. He holds her closer to him and she mumbles incoherently, her eyes already closed. That's fine with him. The day is catching up with him too, and after a release of endorphins like that, it's impossible to resist the siren's call of sleep.

He lets his eyes drift shut too, and slips off to sleep beside her.

* * *

He awakens the next morning to dazzling sunlight streaming in through the window, reflecting blindingly against the stark-white snow. Groaning, he lifts his forearm to cover his eyes, then feels the sheets slipping over his skin.

His naked skin.

At once, the memories of the previous evening come flooding back. The cancelled flight. Getting into bed with Daenerys. The argument.

_I love you_.

His eyes snap open at once and he rolls onto his side, but finds the side of the bed where she was sleeping empty.

Before he can begin to panic that she's fled in regret, the bathroom door opens and Daenerys steps out, hair wrapped in one towel with another clutched to her body. His mouth goes instantly dry.

"Morning," she says, perching herself on the edge of the bed. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

He shakes his head, still trying to wrap his head around the facts, that they're here in a hotel bedroom together after sharing such passion mere hours before. Gaining confidence from the smile she shoot him over her shoulder, he scoots out of the bedsheets and moves to sit behind her, one leg bent and the other foot brushing against the carpet, his forearm curling around her stomach. He presses his mouth to the side of her neck, and she hums, tilting her head to give him more access. It's not an opportunity he's going to pass up, but when his hand starts to drift lower than her stomach, seeking out a gap in the towel, she swats him away. He pouts, but pauses in his ministrations.

"I've checked the airport website," she says. "Looks like it's safe to go down to the airport to try to get a flight back to King's Landing today. Not sure what time it'll be, but we might as well go for it. Hardly a fantastic way to spend Christmas Day, but…"

"Any day spent with you is a fantastic one in my eyes," he interrupts. Cheesy as the seven hells, but the truth all the same. And it seems to please Daenerys, because she leans back against him. He takes it as his cue to resume his ministrations to her neck, but she stops him again with a breathy whine.

"We can't," she says. "There's not much time until we need to get going. I've booked the taxi for an hour and a half. I thought the earlier we can get there, the better. I've just showered and you still need to, and we need to go and get some breakfast…"

"We'll get something to eat in the airport," he murmurs, voice a silky bear-like rumble. He slips his fingers beneath the towel, teases her soft flesh. "We can shower together after, that'll save us some time."

"I'm not sure how much I trust being in a confined space with you," she says breathlessly, but she's conceding defeat anyway, her legs widening beneath his questing touch. "And I'm starving…"

"I'm hungry too, but not for food," he says, nibbling the lobe of her ear.

She squirms. "You barely ate a thing yesterday."

"I'll survive somehow."

And with that he yanks her backwards, and they laugh like young lovers as they tussle, the mattress squeaking beneath them, and Jorah's heart nigh on bursts with love as he traces his thumb over her full bottom lip before she leans down to kiss him properly.

He doesn't get to shower, _and _they miss breakfast.

* * *

They drop the key back in at the reception desk on their way out.

"I hope your stay was pleasant," Sansa Stark says, her smirk making it clear that she hopes that it was the most uncomfortable night they've ever had. Daenerys, of course, is bound to disappoint her, shooting her a broad smile.

"It was spectacular, thank you," she says.

And with that she grabs hold of his hand and twines her fingers through his, leading him outside to the waiting taxi.

And, he thinks as the bracing cold hits his face, this is going to be the first Christmas he's enjoyed in a decade. He hopes there are many, many more to come in the future.

* * *

"_Right," says Jorah, glancing at Daenerys with a smirk, "I think that's enough for today."_

_He's met with a chorus of disappointed cries, Eleana going as far as clambering up his leg._

"_Please, Papa," she beseeches, blinking those beautiful violet eyes at him. It's a look he can never resist._

_Thankfully, Daenerys is made of sterner stuff than he is._

"_No, Papa is right," she says, bending down to swipe Jeorerys into her arms. "Bed, otherwise Santa won't come."_

"_Come on," says Daenora with a sigh, ever practical in defeat. She grabs her younger sister's hand and hauls her to her feet._

"_Good lass," says Jorah, ruffling her red-blonde hair. "Santa will have come before you know it."_

_They shepherd them up to their beds and tuck them in tight like little bear cubs, Jeorerys sandwiched between his two older sisters, the tradition for this one night._

_When they're back downstairs and assured of being alone, Jorah grabs hold of his wife and tugs her into his lap by the crackling fire. Daenerys squeals and laughs, winding her arms around his neck._

"_You don't play fair," he tells her. "Interrupting my story with awkward little chip-ins."_

_She shrugs, completely unapologetic. "I had to spice it up a bit. And I like to remind you of some of the horrific memories you have."_

"_Tyrion's appalling Secret Santa gift?" He shudders. "I'm not likely to forget that."_

"_And me kissing Daario under the mistletoe," she says with a teasing quirk of the eyebrow._

_He scowls at that particular reminder, and she laughs, snugging herself against his neck._

"_Daario instigated it, not me," she says. "I was hoping to meet you under there, not him."_

"_I suppose you can meet me under it any time now."_

_She produces the sprig of mistletoe from her sleeve with a conspiratorial grin, dangling it above his head. "That's very true."_

_He takes the offer, meshing his mouth against hers, enjoying the press of her body against his, and the way her mouth moves against his._

"_How about we head to bed too?" he whispers._

"_Are you going to snuggle me tight?" she giggles._

"_Very tight," he murmurs, and lifts her in one fluid movement. She smothers her laugh against his shoulder, aware that they have to be quiet as mice._

_Afterwards, lying tangled naked with her, her head in the crook of his neck, Jorah counts his blessings all over again for another very happy Christmas ahead._


End file.
